


Lately

by laugh_a_latte, pomegrantaire



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Jeremy Heere, Coffee Shops, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gay Panic, Haphephobia, I love yall, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Like really really long, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Sad bois, Slow Burn, So Bear With me, and i know you know i know how we all like the pain, and really slowburn, but you won't because you like the pain and i like the pain, like so slow you're probabaly gonna wanna give up on me, okay so this fic is going to be really long, post-college, thank you :')
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2020-09-18 13:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 64,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20313307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laugh_a_latte/pseuds/laugh_a_latte, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrantaire/pseuds/pomegrantaire
Summary: For the first time ever, Jeremy felt excited about his futureFor the first time ever, Michael didn’t.Michael didn’t know what to do. Michael panicked. And the summer before senior year, Michael transferred schools.But, it’s been five years, and Michael’s finally moved on.It’s been five years, and maybe Jeremy is getting there, too.But just when everything seems okay, everything starts to change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HOOOO BOY WHERE DO I BEGIN?
> 
> First of all, this is definitely my most ambitious fic ever - in any fandom, _ever._ I have a lot of plans for this one. It's going to be long, and so slow-burn, and hopefully very good.
> 
> It's inspired by a prompt and a comic by my close friend Alphonse (@pomegrantaire).
> 
> Prompt: ". . . what I really love is when Jeremy is the one pining after Michael but Michael is not interested in Jeremy Like that..."
> 
> Also, Al is an INCREDIBLY talented just *chef's kiss* artist. They're illustrating each chapter, which just makes me wanna cry because their art is so amazing, so PLEASE appreciate that because it's a dream! Their art will always be posted at the end of each chapter!
> 
> So, this is a fic written by me, but prompted/inspired by Al and their art. And as I've been writing, Al's been supporting, and helping me organize my million ideas for this fic, and illustrating it, and beta-ing, and being awesome. This fic literally would not exist without them. So thank you Al!
> 
> ANYWAYS! This is just the beginning of this monster of a fic. We're pretty proud of what we've got in these words and drawings so far, and there's still so much to come. We hope you enjoy this as much as we enjoy creating it! So enough talking, and let's get to it!

Michael has autopilot turned on. He is sorting through a load of old junk, completely zoned out. He is so in his own world, in fact, too busy considering the consequences maybe putting laundry off another day, that he almost misses it.

Almost.

Because now that Michael is out of college and a certified adult, his mothers decided it was time to get out of the old house and move. So when they asked him to come home and sort through his old things, he had already made up his mind that all of it was going. He didn’t want to keep a single thing.

Everything he wanted was already out and in his apartment, anyways. He left the things he did for a reason, after all.

With clothing, though, he can’t just toss everything with a good conscience, so it’s more a matter of what is donatable and what is too ratty and tatty and gross.

But, for now, he’s just throwing anything that could possibly be considered clothing—anything remotely fabric—into one large pile to figure out later.

Because Michael doesn’t want to think. He pulled a double yesterday and opens tomorrow and would very much like to go crash hard in a dark room and pass out for twelve hours. More importantly, if he thinks while doing this, then he might stop and remember.

Memories are a dangerous thing.

They hold the past, and have a way of dragging it back with full force to the forefront of Michael’s mind. And Michael has worked so hard to lay those memories to rest. He’s worked so hard to move on. And he has moved on. He doesn’t want to remember. He doesn’t need to.

But this house holds so many memories. Michael sees a story in every corner he looks at, so he is trying not to look. And it’s so difficult not to look when you’re surrounded by corners, digging through closets.

Michael _has_ to be on autopilot or he won’t make it through this evening.

So it’s toss, toss, toss on repeat. And he’s trying not to let anything catch his eye.

Of course, this doesn’t go as well as planned.

Because he grabs something made of this rough, sky blue fabric, and somewhere in the back of his mind, alarm bells go off because he knows exactly what it is, but it’s cool because he has autopilot on. So he doesn’t dwell on it, and turns around to toss it in the pile, but then there’s a sharp pain in his finger. Michael startles and drops it.

Michael looks at his finger and watches a tiny drop of blood form on it. He sticks it in his mouth, which is kind of gross but the damage is small and definitely not bandaid-worthy.

But doing this shuts autopilot off, and Michael finds himself out of his head and standing in the basement instead.

Michael realizes this, and would very much like to get back on track. So he tries not to let it affect him when he looks down at what he dropped. But, he honestly forgot this thing even existed, and seeing it again is so surreal, and he loses that battle.

Michael stares at it. His breath catches.

The backpack’s color isn’t as vivid as he remembers in high school. Maybe the color faded over time, or maybe he’s just misremembering. Everything was always so vivid, back then.

The letters scrawled hastily across the back of it are definitely faded, though, but still there, all the same.

And Michael stares at those. And as he stares, his breath returns, slamming back into his chest so hard that it knocks his heart down to his stomach, leaving this hollow feeling behind.

It’s been so long. He’d forgotten.

No, Michael. Toss it.

He squats down to pick it up and throw it in the pile. He has to get back on autopilot or he’ll be here all fucking day.

Michael brushes his fingers over the worn backpack, then he gets ahold of himself and grabs it. He’s going to throw it away. He really is.

But then, a loose pin on the front falls and bounces off the carpet. Michael pauses and looks at it, gleaming on the ground.

And, well, Michael has to pick that up, doesn’t he? Or else he’ll step on it and it’ll do more damage to his foot than his finger, so leaving it is dangerous.

And Michael thinks he knows that he should throw the backpack away before he picks the pin up. But, he doesn’t. Michael absentmindedly rubs his thumb around the fabric in a circle as he scoops the pin off the carpet and looks at it.

It’s a rainbow pin, and Michael can’t help but smile at it a little bit. It was something Mom gave to him. She said she used to pin it on her hat to piss off her own mom, back in ‘the day.’ He rolls it around in his hand, then glances back at the real object in question.

His smile slowly fades as he considers. He shouldn’t. He really should just throw it out. There’s nothing in there for Michael anymore. But, as Michael’s fingers brush over the fabric one more time, he loses that battle, too. He isn’t surprised.

Michael lets his head fall back so he’s staring at the ceiling. He lets in a long inhale, then exhales slowly.

His eyes find a ray of evening sun slashed across the ceiling, streaming in from the tiny basement window. It’s orange and glowy and really nice. He can see a million bits of dust drifting in that ray.

Then, he comes back down to earth and sits on the bed. The old mattress squeaks beneath his weight. His blankets and sheets are long gone, just like the posters that used to decorate the walls and the dirty laundry and notebooks that used to litter the floor.

It’s so empty that Michael can see every corner he is trying to avoid, so instead he just focuses on this backpack.

Because somehow, even though his posters are gone and his shelves are empty, this backpack is still here. After all this time, it was just jammed in the far back corner of his closet.

And most of the pins are still here, right on the front. Michael can’t tear his eyes away from them as he sets the rainbow pin on the mattress next to him.

The backpack is heavy. Michael shifts it around on his lap.

He doesn’t remember what he left in it. He supposes it’s whatever he brought home with him on the last day of junior year because, after that, it lay forgotten in the corner almost all summer. And he bought a new backpack senior year, too.

New school, new backpack, new start.

Michael rubs his eye with the back of his hand and lets out a sigh.

God, that stain is still there, too. That one time Jeremy Heere made him laugh so hard first period that he burped up coffee all over it, which only made Jeremy laugh harder. Then Michael had to miss second period so he could sort himself out. And it’s faded, like everything else, but still it’s still there, a permanent stain here and in his memory.

Michael realizes he’s smiling again and cuts that out real quick. He still has to open it.

Michael takes the zipper, but it doesn’t feel right. He looks at it, and notices how it’s not the original zipper. And, oh yeah. Now he remembers.

His fingers run over this length of braided and knotted embroidery thread. His replacement for the old one that broke off after years of use. And he remembers why.

Michael loved this backpack. He wanted it to last as long as possible. He wanted to use it for an eternity. Michael fixed it up every time something broke. And things broke a lot.

Michael lets the braided zipper fall as he flips it around to check, and yeah, there it is. The patch he sewed on over the hole at the bottom where his heavy tome of an algebra book wore through, and if he looks at the handle on top, there’s where he sewed it back together every time it tore clean off.

He really did want this backpack to last forever, didn’t he.

At least until he buried it away. Hiding it deep inside of his closet to be forgotten about and purposefully ignored until today.

He catches himself smiling again and bites his lip to stop.

A strange warmth fills Michael’s hollow chest where his heart would be if it wasn’t still chilling in his stomach. Michael rubs his hand over his chest to try to get this odd feeling out. He’s finding it difficult to swallow.

Enough of that. Michael takes the zipper again, determined open it this time. He pushes his glasses back up on his nose and pulls it.

Suddenly the backpack is open. Michael’s chest tightens and he stands up so quickly that his vision becomes spotty. The backpack falls back on the bed and Michael takes a lap around the room, rubbing at his eyes, wondering why it’s so hard to open a damn backpack.

And Michael spins around and stares at it, just laying on the bed, like it used to everyday so many years ago, and can’t believe this.

A backpack shouldn’t be doing this to him. Especially not _this_ backpack. Because this backpack doesn’t mean anything anymore. Those memories are so long gone and done, away, and forgotten about. This backpack doesn’t matter. It’s just a piece of fabric that _doesn’t matter_, and Michael should just throw it away.

Michael is going to throw it away.

Michael grabs it by the handle on top. And he’s going to do this proper, he thinks. He’ll take it upstairs and throw it away outside, so it’s not even in the house. Yeah, he’ll do that.

But Michael doesn’t even make it out of the basement before the handle rips where his teenage hands messily stitched it together, and the backpack falls on the floor with a thud.

Michael kicks the backpack, then sits on the floor next to it.

He tugs the backpack towards him and runs a hand through his hair. He grabs it where it’s longest and pulls to relieve the built up tension he’s getting. Then his hands drop, and he opens the backpack.

He pulls out a whole stack of notebooks first, and looks at them.

Back in highschool, Michael could never keep a notebook looking new. By day two, the thing would be creased and bent up. By week two, the last few pages would already be full of doodles with the metal spirals coming out, always catching on anything and everything.

And these notebooks are no exception. Michael rifles through them. English, Physics, Trig. Scrawled across the cover in sharpie. Michael glances at the front of his backpack. They’re like twins.

Michael places them in a stack next to him for the moment, and looks inside.

The smell hits him first, and holy shit.

He sits there stunned. It’s this weird mix of pencil lead, weed, and the distinctive scent of Middleborough High School floor cleaner. And for a moment he is really whipped back in time because it smells just like the first day of school. It smells like blasting reggae in the hallways and slamming lockers before first period. It smells like droning teachers and trying to sneakily pack up as class neared its end, and long, long lunches. It smells like coming home to a cool basement and video games and waiting with anticipation for the moment he’d hear the front door upstairs open, and moments later, Jeremy Heere would appear in the basement doorway and they’d do whatever teenagers did after school.

Michael pulls his face away, rubbing at his nose to clear that. Moving on.

Michael gingerly peeks back inside. There’s a medley of receipts and wrappers and garbage at the bottom of the backpack. Michael pulls out a receipt and looks at it. It’s from 7-Eleven for a slushie and negimaki. Michael pulls another out, and it’s the same thing. He rolls his eyes. Actually disgusting.

Michael shoves the receipts and wrappers out of the way and digs around for anything interesting. There are a few more forgotten pins of varying levels of brokenness and about a million old pencils and pens, and then his hand brushes against another something-rough and fabric-y.

Michael pulls it out. It’s a leather bracelet. One that broke at the very end of summer before senior year. Michael’s heart flips in his stomach.

Because he was trying to test out of his last year of Spanish at Middleborough, and it was like two weeks before senior year began. It was a very important test to him, but he didn’t sleep at all the night before. And he couldn’t focus. And he couldn’t remember how to conjugate this verb, and he _knew_ he knew how, he could do it at home, but he was just so tired, and it was all Jeremy’s fault he couldn’t sleep. And _he knew the answer_, so this was so stupid, and he was so stupid, and he was freaking out and before he knew it, he was holding a broken piece of leather.

He used to do that. Pull at his bracelets when he was anxious. He almost forgot.

He never finished that test, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to take Spanish at his new school.

Michael stops rubbing his thumb over the brown leather and throws it back inside the backpack. He’s done with looking in there for now.

Michael sits back and hums a note, trying to fill the weird hollow feeling in his chest with vibrations or something. He thinks it’s another something he read an article about online. It could have also been Reddit, so he’s not sure if it really does anything, but placebo is good enough for him. So he hums to find some comfort and looks around him.

His eyes land on the discarded notebooks, and something inside of him is dying to open one. At this point, he figures he might as well.

He picks a notebook at random and leafs through it, sitting back on the floor cross-legged. This one is all full of math and diagrams. Physics.

He pauses to look at a few of the notes and problems, and cannot believe he actually knew what this shit meant at one point, because today it totally looks like hieroglyphics. Michael snorts and flips to the last few pages.

They’re full of doodles. Nothing of note, really.

And he’s about to close it, but then something catches his eye.

It’s dated late September. Junior year. Michael squints to make out his handwriting.

_Jere isn’t talking to me anymore. He won’t even look at me. What did I do? I can’t figure it out._

Michael’s heart flips in his stomach and he slaps the notebook shut. He’s looking at the cover, but he can’t quite focus on it.

This was a bad idea. Because now he’s thinking of Jeremy Heere. And he’s actually wondering, a little, what he’s doing right now, _how_ he’s doing, because he hasn’t talked to Jeremy Heere since that last summer before he transferred. He hasn’t heard anything of him since freshman year of college, and he worked _so hard_ to not be thinking of Jeremy Heere every single day. And he made it to only thinking of him maybe a few times a week, then maybe a few times a month. And today he’s down to only thinking of him in fleeting moments that he can deal with with relative ease.

But this isn’t just a fleeting moment, and he can’t just quell these emotions rising up, and he _can’t_ deal, and now it’s taking over him, just like it always used to, and wow, his chest hasn’t hurt like this in a long time. A really long time, and he’s finding it really hard to catch his breath, and he knows exactly what this is.

And now that it’s hitting him, he thinks probably should’ve brought the stuff his doctor gave him for panic attacks, but he hasn’t needed it in forever. Then again, shouldn’t he have realized that maybe this might happen if he went through old stuff? If he rifled around those corners and dug up old memories? Because _duh_, of course, and it feels so obvious now.

But, Michael shouldn’t be having this happen right now, anyways. He thought he grew out of it. He was supposed to grow out of it.

And he just hasn’t needed that stuff in so long, and now he can’t breathe and he can’t stand up, and he’s just going to have to deal with this like an adult.

Michael lays down on the floor, on his back, so he stays open and doesn’t cave in on himself like he used to. He stays open, and keeps his eyes focused on the sunray on the ceiling, and he tries to think of numbers.

He can count, he can do that.

He counts backwards from one hundred in his brain, by threes, and tries to focus all of this sudden energy on counting.

And this really is awful timing, isn’t it? Because this is taking up energy he doesn’t even have, and he needs to work tomorrow, so he _can’t_ be drained, and Michael knows this will drain him. Then Michael realizes he’s stopped counting and still can’t breathe, but now he’s making sounds that a human shouldn’t make, so he has to make himself stop thinking of work. Obviously it’s not helping. And he looks at the ray of sunshine on the ceiling.

All he has to focus on now is the ray of sunshine. And counting. That’s it. Tomorrow doesn’t matter. Work doesn’t matter.

So Michael counts. Then he does it again, and again, and each time his breathing gets a little more steady as long as he is only focusing on that line of light, and soon the tightness in his chest starts to loosen.

Then, as the last hiccupping breaths fade away, there’s this wonderful moment where he feels nothing but complete relief. Because he didn’t die like his brain kept telling him he would, and oxygen is getting to his blood again, and his chest feels almost normal again. And his head is a little fuzzy, but it’s all okay, for this one moment. It feels like everything might be okay.

But like always, as soon as his brain and body sync back up, that relief is extinguished as quickly as it came. And, just like always, total exhaustion takes its place.

Michael sniffs and lays on the floor and stares at the ceiling. He breathes and watches that line of orange sunlight become thinner and thinner and, eventually, disappear altogether. Then, he breathes and watches the light around him change as the sun outside sets. And as he breathes, as the room becomes darker, he counts and counts and lets the moment pass.

And after that moment, plus a few more for good measure, Michael slowly stands up.

Michael lets the world readjust around him as he rubs his nose. He sniffs. He feels like he’s about to get the flu.

He looks back down to where his backpack lays, surrounded by broken notebooks. Michael kicks the lot over to his pile, finds his wallet and keys and phone and books it out of there. He’ll finish this later.

But, despite all of his counting, and blasting music, and taking ibuprofen from the glove box, and breathing, and counting some more, Michael still thinks about Jeremy Heere the entire drive home.

And he thought he was doing okay.

* * *

"His fingers run over this length of braided and knotted embroidery thread. His replacement for the old one that broke off after years of use. And he remembers why.

He really did want this backpack to last forever, didn’t he."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Art by Al (@pomegrantaire)!


	2. Chapter 2

“Anything?”

“A single book,” Jeremy announces, joining Mary behind the old, wooden counter.

“We’re really putting you to work, huh.” Mary looks back down at her phone.

“Yup,” Jeremy leans on the counter next to her, looking out. Sun streaming in from the skylight above is leaving shadowed stripes across the desks near the front. Beyond those desks and tables is the sea of books that make up the library he works at, re-shelving books.

Not like he’s done much of that today. Despite working the morning shift, it’s dead slow, and he’s made his rounds checking the carts countless times, each time to be met with fewer and fewer books, and almost no one is even in here, anyways, and it’s really quite pathetic.

But he gets paid by the hour, so he doesn’t mind.

He glances at the clock and has a good two hours left of this shift, so maybe he can get some homework done in the meantime.

And he is just about to dig his laptop out of his bag, but Mary stops him.

“Hey, you wanna do something?”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Nope,” Mary smiles as Jeremy stares longingly at his bag. It’ll just have to wait, he supposes. “Can you bring that box of books over to the East branch?”

Jeremy’s gaze follows to where she’s pointing. It lands on a box that looks pretty fucking heavy.

“Don’t you usually ship these things?”

“Yeah, but like. You’re here, Heere,” she smirks, and Jeremy just rolls his eyes.

“Never heard that one before.”

But then he thinks. And he thinks maybe Lisa is working today. And well, a trip to Eastchester doesn’t sound so bad if Lisa could be on the other end.

“No, they actually have requests in for some books in the lot and need them, like tonight.”

“Cool,” Jeremy sends her a thumbs up.

“Yeah and you don’t have to come back. Just text me when you leave and I’ll clock you out.”

“Thanks.”

The sun blinds him as he steps out of the library. He squints against it as he searches the parking lot for his Honda.

He bought it, with the help of his dad, near the end of high school after he’d lost his main ride. It took him only one try to get his license, however reluctant he was to get it.

And he is a pretty good driver, if he does say so himself. Zero accidents to report and zero times pulled over. He always goes the speed limit.

Well, he supposes he doesn’t drive one hundred percent by himself. Because he always somehow knows when a police car is nearby, or if there was an accident up ahead. Passengers often tell him it’s like there’s a radio in his head. Something that feeds him the traffic information, or intercepts police radio signals. Jeremy would say it’s more like a supercomputer than a radio, but he never corrects them.

Jeremy sets the box on the trunk with a heavy thud and digs through his backpack for his keys.

They’re easy to find, attached to an old, faded strip of fabric. A Zelda lanyard. It used to belong to Michael.

He unlocks the car and dumps the books inside, then falls into the driver’s seat, turning the car on and rolling down the window before he shuts himself in with the heat. The air conditioning’s been broken all summer, and so he’s learned how to cope. Although, he can feel the imminent wave of sweat about to hit him.

So, Jeremy books it out of there, desperate to get some wind through the window before he asphyxiates on the stuffed up heat.

And while Jeremy is an excellent driver, he absolutely hates driving. He thought he might be able to go a few more years before learning, and besides. He always loved being in the passenger seat beside Michael. And Michael loved driving, so he never minded taking Jeremy where ever Jeremy wanted to go.

It’s just that driving reminds Jeremy too much of Michael.

Then again, everything reminds him too much of Michael these days.

And the thing is, it makes him sad, and he kind of wishes everything didn’t remind him of Michael. But he never stopped missing Michael.

And as much as he hates to admit it, as sad as it sometimes makes him, he likes the little reminders sometimes. It’s nice to have those memories and reminders, because they prove those moments really existed. That there was a time he had a real friend like that who got him through and through—even if those reminders hurt.

And it’s not like he didn’t _try_ to stop missing Michael. He fucking tried.

But, he could never just get over him.

And so Jeremy has slowly and painfully come to the realization that he’ll never stop missing Michael. So he just lets the memories come. It's easier that way.

He tried forcing them back, for a while. But it never worked. And it always left him exhausted and hurting afterwards. And the memories would _still_ come, even after all of that, and they'd come with a vengeance. So he figures, no matter what he does, he’s going to hurt. And he might as well take the easier hurt to deal with.

So Jeremy just deals with missing Michael, and accepts that he won’t get over him.

It’s just. The way they left things didn’t allow for Jeremy to get any sort of closure. It was like Michael just disappeared. One day he was there, and the next day, Jeremy didn’t have a best friend anymore.

It was so confusing and sudden and Jeremy didn’t get any chance to say anything. Jeremy didn’t get the chance to understand. It was all over, so quickly, and Jeremy never got to find out _why._ At least, not from Michael.

Jeremy put it together, in the end.

Still, he never got over Michael. And he always wonders if Michael got over him.

And that’s stupid, and he needs to stop thinking that, because of _course_ Michael got over him. Michael made it painfully clear that he never wanted to see Jeremy again.

Jeremy never stopped trying to resolve the situation, either, but Michael never let him. He never got his closure or even Michael’s own reasoning for just dropping him. And Jeremy wonders what it’s like, to be able to drop someone so easily like that, a friend of thirteen years.

But then, Jeremy remembers how he did it first. He dropped Michael first, back at the beginning of junior year. So maybe he does get it.

He hates that he gets it.

But the thing is, less than two months after the the Squip blocked Michael from him, he wanted Michael’s friendship back.

And he remembers senior year. Waiting week after week after month. For Michael to text him, or call him, or show up at his door, or _anything._

And, nothing.

And he remembers his texts getting left on read, then going unread. And he will definitely never forget the day he got a text back from that number. And his heart fucking soared out of his chest, and he unlocked his phone with shaking hands, trying not to fall on the floor in the middle of class.

Jeremy somehow got his phone open, and, with sweaty hands and a racing heart, he somehow got the message open.

He could barely think, he could barely see, that moment so was unreal.

Because it was a text asking who Michael was.

And his soaring heart fell. Hard.

And it was so hard to accept how that number didn’t belong to Michael anymore.

And Jeremy’s sense of reality collapsed, because nothing after that made sense. His whole world fell to pieces in that classroom. He thinks that’s the closest he’s ever felt to dying.

Jeremy will never forget that day. He made sure of it. He wrote it down in this journal Michael had gotten him to write stuff like that down, stuff he had trouble remembering after the Squip altered his mind.

And the e-mails started bouncing back, and Michael never used social media, anyways.

Michael never wanted Jeremy back.

He was totally and completely gone.

And yeah, Jeremy could probably have found him through friends, but Michael made it clear he didn’t want Jeremy anymore. So Jeremy gave him his space. And still, after everything, couldn’t shake the hope that one day he’d call.

And Jeremy hates that hope. He hates it because it only leads to this numb kind of hurt that he feels still, everyday. He just wishes he could forget Michael as easily as Michael forgot him.

At first, the whole thing really fucking hurt. Because Jeremy thought things were getting better between them. They were talking, again, about things they hadn’t talked about since before the Squip. Michael was beginning to open up to him again.

Things were going so well. Jeremy thought things were _okay_ again, just like he always wanted.

But then everything changed. For the worse. For the way worse. And Jeremy thinks it was him who re-fucked it.

And Jeremy was so angry, then upset. Then confused and worried and desperate. But then, he almost flunked out of senior year, and had to pull himself together. He _had_ to, or else he wouldn’t be able to go to college.

College. Michael was always so excited for college.

Jeremy wonders what Michael ended up thinking of college. Or where Michael ended up going to college. Or if he went at all, or if he stayed, or flunked out, or had to take time off and is taking night classes like him.

Yeah. So everything reminds Jeremy of Michael.

And Jeremy realizes he’s here. At Eastchester. There’s a voice somewhere in his head telling him that. Jeremy shakes his head and stares at his hands on the steering wheel. He doesn’t remember driving here.

Anyways, he figures that’s his Daily Michael Missing done, so he can cross that off the to-do list.

Jeremy turns off the car and shoves the lanyard in his pocket, then brings the box in, letting out a sigh as the air conditioning hits him.

His eyes scan the front counter, looking. And then his heart flips when he sees that girl with the chopped bob and huge glasses standing behind it, staring at the heavy box in his hand.

Lisa _is_ working today.

“Oh God, what is that?” Jeremy’s heart does a cartwheel in his chest.

Because Lisa is very pretty, and very nice. Well, at least to him. And she calls him ‘Jere’ for short. He likes that a lot.

“What do you think?” Jeremy drops it on the counter.

“I’m. Ugh. I’m supposed to be leaving now, you know,” Lisa looks up at him with an eyebrow raised.

“No one else is coming in?”

“Not to reshelve.”

“I-I can help you like. Put them away.”

Lisa smiles at him, and Jeremy smiles back, but tries not to smile too wide so he doesn’t freak her out. She laughs.

“Please, Jere?”

“Totally.”

Jeremy isn’t one hundred percent familiar with how things are organized here at Eastchester. He knows his own branch like the back of his hand. He could find any book blindfolded. It’s something he’s secretly, really proud of. Not like he would tell anyone that.

But, to be reshelving at Eastchester feels kind of like someone reversed the controls on a controller—It’s a little wrong, but he can figure it out with focus.

The thing is, it’s really hard to focus when Lisa keeps cracking jokes with him, and laughing so loudly that she keeps getting shushed by guests, and Jeremy’s heart keeps misbehaving in his chest. And he almost accidentally reshelves two of the books on hold, then he has to go back and find them as Lisa laughs at him some more. But then again, he maybe might have reshelved one of them on purpose just so he could hear her laugh.

Anyways. It takes a while. But Lisa only pretends to be annoyed at staying late. Jeremy knows she hates going home. She told him once.

So he can’t help but wonder if she actually wants to hang out with him some more or if she’s just finding an excuse to stay out of the house when she asks him if he wants to go get some coffee.

“Oh,” Jeremy says. _Yes. Yes. Yes!_ But he doesn’t say that. “I could go for coffee.”

“Cool beans,” Lisa says. She takes her time finding her wallet. “Um. There’s a Starbucks across the street, but like. If you don’t mind walking a few blocks we could go to Vagabond.”

Jeremy’s definitely never heard of Vagabond. If he’s going to be completely honest, he’s not much of a coffee drinker anyways. It reminds him too much of Michael.

Michael loved coffee. Maybe he still does. Jeremy hopes not, because Michael drank too much. It couldn’t have been very good for his health.

Anyways, Jeremy’s isn’t familiar with the coffee shops in town.

“Where ever you want,” Jeremy says instead.

“Vagabond,” Lisa nods. “You been?”

Jeremy shakes his head.

“Oh, they slap.”

Jeremy nods and follows her out into the day, sending a text to Mary to clock him out.

_That took forever. Chatting up Lisa? ;)_

Jeremy’s heart flips again and he makes sure Lisa isn’t looking at his phone screen. It takes him three tries to close the message. And she’s definitely not looking at his screen, but you can never be too safe, Jeremy thinks.

Jeremy somehow survives a few minutes of small talk without too much stuttering and saying only minimally stupid things. He swears he can feel shock down his spine once or twice, but he’s grown so used to it at this point that it’s more of like scratching an itch when he mentally tells it to shut up than anything else. Finally, Lisa stops off and starts going into a door that’s propped open with a book.

Jeremy almost misses it because the front of this shop looks like a house, copy-pasted into a row of shops, but he follows her in nonetheless.

And Jeremy thinks he gets the house thing going on. The walls inside are painted fun colors, like yellow and blue and orange. Mismatched couches and chairs and tables crowd the rooms. Cooky paintings fight for real estate on the wall. The ceiling hangs low and cozy.

And it’s busy. Like, really busy.

“Is i-it always this crowded?” Jeremy asks Lisa, who is squinting at the menu in front of them, her chin resting on her hand. She blows her bangs out of her face.

“It’s usually slower at, like, night. Or first thing in the morning,” she says. “Isn’t it cute in here, though?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, moving aside as a server brushes by him with platefuls of food. “Is it like a café?”

“Coffee house, café, hybrid thing? I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows.”

“All we know is that it’s _good_,” the plump lady ahead of them in line says. Jeremy sends an awkward smile her away as more people join the line behind him.

Jeremy’s eyes frantically scan the menu. He’s always been super bad with menus. Really, it’s a decision thing. He’s always been bad at decisions. And this is no exception.

Jeremy’s eyes land on hot chocolate. That’s safe, he thinks. No coffee in it. He can deal. He’ll do that.

But then he notices there’s a refrigerator by the front counter, and he thinks he spots a Cherry Coke in that. And Jeremy loves Cherry Coke. Maybe he’ll do that.

And now he has a decision to make, and Jeremy doesn’t like decisions.

And he’s about to open his mouth to ask Lisa her opinion on his drink choices, because she's a capable human who can make decisions, but then he freezes.

His blood runs cold, and what his heart was doing earlier is _nothing_ compared to how it just point-blank stops in his chest, right now.

Because he hears a laugh. And it’s a laugh he knows, a laugh he’s only heard in old videos watched and re-watched time and time again, a laugh he never thought he’d ever hear in person again. Loud and full and annoying as fuck and _real_.

But this can’t be real. This cannot be really happening to him.

Jeremy blinks and blinks, and his heart has definitely stopped. And he has to press his hand over it, to remind it to keep beating.

Because behind the counter is another room, and Jeremy can see into that room through the wide archway behind the register. And in that room, with his tongue poking out of teeth as he smiles and a knot of concentration between his brow, juggling cups of syrup and pitchers of milk, pulling shots of espresso, laughing and yelling to someone back in the kitchen, is Michael Mell.

* * *

"But this can’t be real. This cannot be really happening to him.

Jeremy blinks and blinks, and his heart has definitely stopped. He has to press his hand over it, to remind it to keep beating."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Art by Al (@pomegrantaire)!


	3. Chapter 3

_ August, Senior Year _

“I’m in, uh. Honors English Composition. How. Why. I don’t remember signing up for this,” Jeremy squints at his schedule, as if he can’t quite see it properly. But Michael knows he can because Michael is reading it upside down just fine. And yeah, there it is in black and white. Honors English Composition.

“Ms. White thinks you’re up for it,” Michael replies, wrapping his sleeved-hands around his mug of coffee.

It’s doing nothing. The caffeine nor the warmth from the mug. Nothing at all for Michael. He traces the rim of the mug before taking another sip.

“I’m gonna flunk it.”

“You’re smart, Jere,” Michael says, looking back to Jeremy’s schedule.

Michael doesn’t like that. How he sounds. His voice sounds really flat and far away. And it is so obvious to him. He wonders if Jeremy is noticing.

“Honors French IV. Honestly. Oh,” Jeremy flips his schedule around his kitchen table, knocking a box of cereal over in the process, and points at Period 3. “Art. Nice. I can do art.”

Michael thinks back to Jeremy’s scribbles in his sketchbook. “I beg to differ.”

“Assface.”

Michael smiles, but the amount of effort it takes him is stupid, and Jeremy just has to be able to tell it’s forced.

But, Jeremy’s eyes light up all the same, and he smiles back.

Michael knows Jeremy’s smiles, and this one is legit. It’s big and toothy and so, so dorky. And Jeremy wouldn’t be smiling like that if he knew something was going on with Michael.

So maybe it’s all in Michael’s head. Maybe Michael’s smile is real, maybe the tone of his voice isn’t empty. Maybe everything really is just all in his head. He can’t tell anymore.

And Michael can’t do this anymore. He can’t take Jeremy’s smile like that. Not after last week. Not after what he told Jeremy, and especially not after how Jeremy took it. Because Michael thinks that’s the reason Jeremy’s eyes are glowing like that, and Michael just can’t pretend.

And it’s too much at once, and Jeremy’s doing so well now, and Michael hasn’t quite caught up to him. And it’s too fast, and Jeremy’s trying to go faster, but Michael isn’t ready.

And it’s a good thing he’s still feeling the effects of getting high at four in the morning. For once, that was a good idea, because it’s allowing him to kind of have a conversation with Jeremy right now and not be curled up under his covers wanting to cry, but not being able to, because he thinks he’s going insane. And he thinks this decision is the only way to prevent that situation.

Jeremy really is getting better. Jeremy is getting a lot better. Jeremy is almost back to Jeremy-before-the-Squip. But Michael hasn’t been Michael-before-the-Squip since before the squip. Not even close.

He isn’t getting better. And this weird trust they’ve built since the play isn’t very solid at all. And Michael can see every single crack in that foundation, and he can see how unstable the whole thing is. And he’s not ready to move forward, because putting anything more on that crumbling foundation will cause the whole thing to collapse.

But Jeremy can’t see the cracks. Jeremy thinks they’re solid, and Jeremy thinks Michael is ready. So Jeremy started building.

And Michael started collapsing.

And maybe Jeremy thinks they’re getting better because Michael opened up to him last week about everything he went so long not telling Jeremy about.

Like what happened on Halloween night. And Jeremy saw what those events caused his stupid self to do, and every dark place his stupid mind went to.

So, Michael has the oddest, most wrong feeling that Jeremy thinks Michael is getting better, because after half a year of Jeremy asking and asking, Michael answered. Michael caved. And Jeremy saw exactly how he handled being dropkicked aside like that.

And maybe Jeremy thinks that Michael showed everything because Michael finally trusted him, again.

But, really, it was just Michael's last ditch effort to get things back to how they were before.

Because Michael misses the friends they used to be. He misses the casual trust and shared secrets and knowing looks and easy communication. And he just got so used to it that not having it anymore felt like he was missing a part of his whole personality. And that person he shared it all with is right in front of him.

But Michael just can’t figure out why they aren’t back to being those people yet.

At first he thought maybe it was him, because he was scared of telling Jeremy everything he’d been hiding in case Jeremy abandoned him again, once he saw how broken Michael was.

But things weren’t getting better, so Michael tried to set how much he never wanted to feel so abandoned like that again aside.

And he did, and he showed Jeremy. And it was the scariest thing he ever did. But he just thought it’d all be better after. That he’d be able to trust Jeremy again after, just like before.

But instead Michael saw just how much Jeremy is missing. And how misplaced that trust really is.

It’s like Jeremy has this false sense of reality about Michael. And Michael can’t tell if Jeremy knows it and is pretending everything is okay, or if he somehow actually believes everything is okay when, in Michael’s reality, things are the furthest from okay that they’ve ever been.

Michael can’t figure out how it got so bad.

Jeremy can’t see Michael’s forced smile and he can’t recognize Michael’s flat, distant voice. Michael feels like his whole existence is screaming for help, but Jeremy can’t hear him. And when you scream and scream in someone’s face, but they don’t hear you no matter how loud you’re being, you start to think you’re going insane.

Michael thinks he’s going insane.

Shouldn’t it be obvious? Jeremy used to be able to tell.

And Michael can’t tell who changed.

Then, the thought hits Michael that maybe they both changed.

Michael’s heart sinks as he watches Jeremy go off about his art class.

That’s it.

They both changed, in this awfully perfect way. And it was just enough to break what they had.

They’re two puzzle pieces that look like they fit together. And at first it looks just fine enough to maybe be right, but as time goes on, you realize it was the wrong piece the entire time. And those two pieces, forced together, only remain stuck together out of the stress put on either piece. Not because they fit.

And Michael is too tired for puzzles.

And his impulse decision of the century returns to the front of his mind.

“What’s your schedule look like?” Jeremy asks, moving his aside so they can compare like they always do. Like they always did. Michael swallows, because this is it.

And this moment doesn’t feel real. And it hits Michael that he is going to remember this moment forever, without even trying. He’ll remember how the lights are too bright, and how he is kind of getting tunnel-vision.

He’ll remember how the sounds of blaring lawnmowers and traffic faded away, leaving him with just the table in front of him and the hush of blood rushing through his ears.

Because now he has to tell Jeremy. And he knows this is it. And he’s known ever since he made this decision that once he tells Jeremy, everything is over.

“I don’t. I don’t have one.” Michael blinks and opens his mouth again. He can feel Jeremy’s brain start working across the table, and Michael has to say it now, before Jeremy puts it together. He’s surprised by how hard the words are, even when he focuses on every sound. “I’m transferring.”

Jeremy doesn’t say anything for a long few seconds, but Michael doesn’t think he can bear whatever look he can feel Jeremy pulling, so he concentrates on the woodgrain of the table in front of him, trying to remember, all at once, every time he ever sat here. Because this might be the last.

He wonders what he would tell that Michael in the past, if he could go back and speak with him.

Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. Maybe he’d let him enjoy peace for as long as he could.

“You’re not transferring.” Jeremy says, voice pitched ever so higher, cracking. And Michael doesn’t have to look at Jeremy’s face to know.

This is Pre-Panic Jeremy. And usually Michael knows what to do in this situation to prevent Panic Jeremy, but this is his fault, so he can’t do anything. Besides. He can’t say what Jeremy wants to hear.

So Michael says nothing.

“You’re not. I mean. H-how am I—I can’t do senior year without you, Michael.”

Michael shakes his head clear, and looks up at Jeremy before he switches to Panic mode.

Michael just isn’t worth the trouble of it all, really.

“You’ll figure it out, Jere. You’re smart.”

“Michael, you’re . . . Y-you’re not joking.”

Michael shakes his head.

“But. Just. Why?” Jeremy asks. And it’s so tiring.

Jeremy’s eyes are wide and Michael watches him rub his sweaty hands on his cardigan. He wonders how many more times he’ll get to watch Jeremy do that.

And, oh.

And it hits Michael like a train there. Right in his chest, as he wonders how many more times he’ll get to see Jeremy wipe his sweat off his hands. Or how many more times he’ll get to beat Jeremy in a video game, or let Jeremy win when Jeremy’s sad, or get high with him, or pick him up from rehearsal, or order for him at a restaurant. How many more times Jeremy will race over in the middle of the night if Michael’s having a panic attack, or stop him from doing something stupid, or go to the twenty four hour diner at ass in the morning on a school night. It’s hitting him now, that he’s actually transferring to a new school, without Jeremy. And he may never have any of these moments ever again.

And he took them for granted, because he didn’t know that he shouldn’t.

And it’s hitting him how much he’s going to miss Jeremy, or what the hell he’s going to do without Jeremy, or what the hell he was even thinking—

Then, Michael’s breath catches in his throat, and in a split second his head is too full of a million reasons why he shouldn’t do this.

But then, as quickly as they came, those reasons are gone, and he’s left with one reason why he should.

The memory of how he felt that day after he showed Jeremy everything. The painful, empty spot next to his heart, where that everything he held onto for so long was ripped away from him before was was ready. Ripped away and utterly misread.

And Michael’s felt empty since.

And Jeremy can’t see.

He has to get away from this, or else he’ll go crazy. He has to get better. After so long of not being okay, of wishing, and waiting, and trying so hard, he has to get better. He has to, or he’ll die.

And he thinks it’s finally his turn to feel better.

That’s reasonable enough.

Michael feels his throat get tight out of nowhere and the muscles in his lip twitch, and he has to bite on his lower lip so they stop. So he can talk.

“I can’t live like this anymore, dude. I gotta. I gotta like. Like, do something for myself.”

Jeremy is still shaking his head. But now he’s blinking a lot, too.

“I, um. I feel like. I’m going crazy? And Middleborough is too much, Jeremy. This is too much. Uh. This-” Michael makes a really lame gesture between him and Jeremy, because he can’t say the words if he wants to keep himself together. “-It’s too much.”

And he didn’t think it was possible to see someone’s world actually fall apart until he sees it in Jeremy, right there. But Michael has to continue. “And I can’t do it anymore. I have to step away, dude.”

“Michael, what did I-what c-can I do?”

And something in those words ends it for Michael.

The sound of Michael’s chair screeching hurts even his ears. And he has to go, right now, or else he’ll break. He’ll change his mind, and he can’t do that.

“Jere, buddy, I’ve been asking myself that for months,” Michael shakes his head and hates how high his voice is getting and his throat is only getting tighter and tighter, and he’s picking up his backpack as his eyes give in and start stinging. “And I don’t know, dude. Just figure it out. You’re smart. And I love you, Jeremy. I do. But I need to- For myself. I’m sorry.”

Michael stands up. Jeremy stands up, too.

“Wait, dude, where are you going? We gotta hang out still, right? I mean, duh, right?”

Michael looks up, back at Jeremy. His hair is fluffy and just too long, his glasses are falling down his face. And Michael looks and looks, for as long as this second will allow him.

He takes in everything, in a flash, a photo for his mind, to hold forever. Jeremy’s red cheeks and crooked nose and big, blue, blue eyes with gold flecks. Like coins in the bottom of a fountain, he always thought.

Those blue eyes are watery, and Michael’s terrified of what he’ll do if he’s still here when that fountain overflows.

And then something shifts in Jeremy’s eyes, and Jeremy’s mouth drops open ever so, and Michael’s breath catches because for the briefest of moments, Jeremy is actually seeing Michael.

Michael watches it click somewhere in that messed up brain of his. This crystal clear knowing written all over his face.

It’s been so long since Jeremy has looked at Michel like that.

But it’s too late.

Besides, Michael doesn’t know Jeremy at all. Not anymore.

Michael looks away. Michael has to go.

Jeremy will be better off without Michael, anyways. Michael thinks. Michael knows. Jeremy’s getting better, and Michael’s holding him back. This is good. Yeah. This is for the best.

Jeremy won’t miss him very long, anyways. He lived without Michael before. He can do it again.

“We’ll. Yeah. We’ll see, man,” Michael says.

And it’s a straight-up lie, and Michael knows it, and he knows it’s the first straight-up lie he’s ever told Jeremy in his life.

And he hates himself for it.

Michael almost hesitates, to tell him the truth, or just to look at him one more time, but he can’t.

Instead he keeps his head down and focuses all of his energy on walking to the front door. And right before he slams it shut, Michael breaks, and he swears he can hear that fountain break somewhere in the kitchen, too.

And as Michael stands there, his hand on the doorknob, everything inside of him is screaming to get back in there, to tell Jeremy how sorry he is, and that he was just kidding, that Michael isn’t actually going anywhere and maybe they should just go get stoned in his basement. And everything will be okay.

But Michael can’t. Michael knows his reason, and Michael has to stick to it.

“You’re gonna be fine, Jere.”

And it is barely above a whisper, but after all, Michael doesn’t want to end things with a lie.

That was the last time they saw each other.

And Jeremy didn’t know it at the time, but Michael did.

* * *

“What’s your schedule look like?” Jeremy asks, moving his aside so they can compare like they always do. Like they always did. Michael swallows, because this is it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Art by Al (@pomegrantaire)!


	4. Chapter 4

Michael wakes up blissfully unaware that his life is going to change forever today.

His alarm creeps into his dreams, waking him up from the inside out. He groggily gets pulled back down to reality, feeling himself wake up. He opens his eyes and squints at the light of his phone screen, which is fading away into the darkness of his room. He lets the alarm ring until he can’t stand it anymore, then blindly hits his phone screen until the noise stops.

That was the four-forty-five alarm. Michael has another set for five, so he lays there contemplating what would happen it he just didn’t show up to work today, drifting in and out of a hazy sleep.

That contemplation goes nowhere, as always, and as the five o’clock alarm rolls in, Michael reminds himself that he’ll feel better once he’s in the car.

So, Michael kicks off his blanket, rubs the crust out of his eyes with minimal success, shoves his glasses on, just barely missing poking his eye out.

He turns the blinding light in his room on and gropes around for clean clothes in his closet. He finds a short-sleeve black button-up with little white polka dots and picks up the black, ripped jeans he wore yesterday.

Last week, one of the floaters at work, Ari, called him a goth vampire. This was a riot for him because he’s neither goth nor a vampire. So, of course, he’s been trying to wear as much black as possible to spite her. But he desperately needs to do laundry and is alarmingly low on black clothing, so this is the most solid black he’ll get today.

Besides, he likes the polka dots.

And because Michael really can’t help his love of color, Michael picks out a bright ass pink bracelet and ties it around his wrist.

And for a single moment, because sometimes weird things remind Michael, like bracelets and cardigans and backpacks, Jeremy Heere flashes through Michael’s thoughts. But, Michael only just woke up, and his brain is still static fuzz, and so who’s to blame him if he slips a little and those thoughts break their way through?

And Michael is back on track since that one night in his mothers’ basement. So Michael closes that door and shuts those thoughts away behind it. No problem.

Michael is still squinting against the light as he gets dressed, but only sticks his foot through the rip in his jeans twice while putting them on, which is improvement from the usual four. He opens the door from his room slowly, lifting the door off its hinges just a little in an attempt to prevent the squeak it always makes.

He does not want to deal with roommates at this hour, especially before either have had caffeine or food. And, like always, the door squeaks shrilly anyways, but Michael figures if he faces an angry roommate, well. At least he tried.

The light in the bathroom is even brighter and more painful, so he doesn’t trust himself to really do his hair up, especially at this hour. Instead, he sticks a headband on and fluffs his hair off to one side and calls it his best shot. Then, he brushes his teeth and applies concealer and powder under his eyes so he looks like a person.

Back in his room, he pulls on pink socks to go with the bracelet, and black sneakers.

Really, it’s a practical thing, Michael thinks grudgingly to Ari as he ties his shoes. If he were to wear any other color to work, it would just get stained beyond help by the first rush because he is the world’s messiest barista, and coffee and color don’t mix.

Michael successfully makes it out of the apartment without waking a soul. The elevator is still broken, so Michael jogs down the seven flights. It helps clear the static in his head more, anyways.

Michael steps out of the air conditioning into a humid morning.

The sky is still dark, and although it’s humid, it’s not hot out quite yet. He takes a moment before finding his car to breathe in some fresher air.

Michael exhales and looks around. Not a soul. It’s dead quiet, save for a few crickets. The sky is cloudless and starless, and the promise of a hot day looms all around him.

Michael walks through the desolate lot, footsteps echoing as he hums, and finds his car, his beater of a Mustang. He doesn’t love it quite as much as he loved his Loser Cruiser, but Musty the Mustang was cheap and drives, and he was able to install the Loser Cruiser’s tape deck so he can play cassettes, and that’s all Michael really needs.

The door opens with a painful creak, and Michael settles inside, slamming the door shut after him. It smells like dusty air and coffee.

The car sputters to life. Michael flips on the headlights and the cassette player hisses. He can’t help the small bubble of excitement that builds at the sound.

And really, he can’t suppress the grin that grows as he ejects the current cassette and digs around the cassette box between the seats for Damien’s newest creation.

Damien likes to surprise him with new, custom mixtapes every month or so. Damien seems to have a sixth sense for when Michael starts to crave new music, and he always seems to know exactly what Michael wants to listen to next, sometimes before Michael even does. So yesterday, as Damien kissed Michael goodbye after a visit at work, he slipped this cassette into Michael’s back pocket.

And Michael forced himself to wait until this morning to play it. A fresh day for a fresh mixtape. One Damien made just for him, and it makes his heart go kind of fuzzy if he thinks too hard about it.

And Michael has to focus on driving right now, so he doesn’t think about it.

Michael finds the cassette. It’s off-white, and written in purple sharpie on the front is the month and year and a scribble of what Michael thinks is supposed to be a piano. It could also be a table. Or a dog. He can’t really tell.

He shakes his head, completely bemused by this mystery, and slides it into the player.

Damien’s always scrawling art on these tapes. They always go with some lyric in one of the songs on it, and Michael has to try to figure out which lyric it matches with before the next month.

The lyrics are usually cutesy love lyrics or a lyric that reminds Damien a lot of Michael. Like little secret messages for Michael to decipher, and Michael totally, completely loves it.

But he still can’t tell what this picture is supposed to be. He’ll solve it soon enough, anyways.

The tape deck clicks and winds and hisses for the minute it takes Michael to weave around the parking lot. The sounds only builds his anticipation.

By the time he’s accelerating down the road, a little too fast because he’s the only car in sight, the PianoTableDog mixtape is blasting from the speakers. Michael rolls down the window as the mixtape begins, and yeah, maybe he does whoop a little out of it.

He just feels like it’s going to be a good day, is all.

Michael relaxes into his seat, and blasts that shit all the way to work, feeling the cool wind whip around the car the whole way there. A mix of Damien’s eighties, Michael’s nineties, some older oldies, and modern stuff to blend it all together—And it’s one perfect song after another. But Michael isn’t surprised, because Damien always knows.

So it’s safe to say he arrives at work feeling really good.

Michael shuts off the car with regret that he’ll have to wait eight hours before hearing more of the tape. But that can wait.

Michael high key really loves opening. It’s complete and quiet solitude, and the world is still dark and sleeping, but he’s here and he’s hustling to open a coffee shop, a place where so many people will choose to start their day today, much later than him. And he loves that he’ll have been up for hours already by the time so many of his customers roll in for their first coffee. Where their day is just starting, his has been riding high for hours.

He loves that, and tries not to take that for granted.

Because Michael doesn’t take things for granted. Not anymore.

So he really revels in walking across the gravel back lot, in listening to the crunch of his shoes on it, in the sky that is just barely beginning to light, in the smells of the restaurants and desolate town around him.

And in the jingle of his keys as he unlocks the door, but not in that incessant beeping. He zooms in to turn off the alarm because, to this day, he still swears he won’t make it in time.

The strong smell of coffee washes completely over him as he returns to the kitchen. The lights flicker on when he hits the switch. He gets to work.

He turns on the music first, because that’s the most important, then gets the coffee brewing, times the espresso shots, adjusts the grind, sets out the water, and takes the chairs off the tables, and sings along as loud as possible the whole time because he can.

And like always, the first hour is dead. So he preps an extra pitcher of iced coffee and an extra pitcher of iced tea, then he cleans the syrup shelf and wipes down the bottles.

Then, as always, right around six-forty-five, the phone rings.

“Yo, Donna,” he says, pulling mugs from under the espresso machine to clean there, too.

“You’re chipper today,” she says.

“It’s a good day!”

He can practically hear Donna roll her eyes through the phone. Michael does the same, but with a smile planted on his face that he doubts is on Donna’s.

“I’ll be in soon, can you send me the list?”

“You know it,” Michael says.

“Thank you darlin’, see you soon.” Donna hangs up. The chillest coffee shop owner in the world—That’s Donna. And that’s saying something.

Michael pulls out the last mug, which is literally covered in espresso. Gross.

He places that one and a few others in the sink and claps the espresso grounds off of his hands, then sends Donna a picture of the grocery list.

He hears the front door squeak open and hit the bell above, which rings just as he’s switching the music over from his opening playlist to Donna’s Approved Playlist, which isn’t nearly as fun. That’s okay, though, because he can play his own music in the back later.

Michael looks up to see the first customer of the day walk in.

He glances at the clock. The server and cook will be here any minute.

His peaceful opening hour is coming to a close, but Michael puts on his best smile, anyways.

“Good morning!”

Time to start the day.

~~~~~~~

Michael is making the last drink for this first rush of customers when the back door slams open.

“Hey, bitch,” Ree says, hauling ass to the kitchen.

“Yo, bitch,” Michael replies, pouring steamed milk into a cup. “Good morning, bitch.”

“You’re not gonna believe-”

The door opens again, much more gently this time, cutting Ree off as Michael snaps a lid on the cup. He hands it to the pretty girl at the register.

“Have a good morning,” he tells her, smiling.

“You, too,” she replies, grinning back in this surprised sort of way.

Michael likes to watch when customers smile back, because they always do it like they’re a little caught off guard by Michael’s smile.

He’s been told he has a nice smile. He wouldn’t be able to tell, but still, he’s been trying to use it more.

She drops a dollar in the tip jar. Nice.

The server reaches over Michael to clock in. “Hey, Michael.”

“ ‘Sup, Alex,” Michael leaves to let Alex do his thing at the register. He dumps the old espresso grounds and starts rinsing the shot glasses.

“Alex, you’re not gonna believe what fucking happened to me,” Ree throws down a Gordon’s Food Service bag of spinach on her cutting board. She slices it open with a knife.

“Did you clock in, dude?” Michael asks.

“Fuck me sideways,” she storms past Michael, who ducks out of her way just in time.

“What happened, Ree?” Alex hides a smirk by grabbing a mug for his coffee.

“Do tell.” Michael does the same.

“You know that fuckin’ light on the dashboard? On your car?”

“Um,” Michael hums, “you’re gonna have to narrow that down.”

On Michael’s very first day of training, he thought Ree was the scariest person he ever met. She didn’t smile at him once, and was so loud, and Michael didn’t like loud things back then, and her eyes were so cold.

But, much to his surprise, after a few weeks she became his absolute favorite to work with. After a few months, she became a great friend, too. Her abrasive honestly and whack sense of humor just takes some getting used to, is all.

And once you give Ree a chance, she’ll surprise you with how warm she really is.

Now his favorite thing ever is watching new hires work with her for the first time. He always makes sure he’s on the clock those days because it’s basically like getting paid to be entertained. And in doing so he’s learned that she purposefully gives the new people a hard time until they gain her respect. You can always tell when that happens, too, because she’ll start calling you bitch. That’s when you know you’ve won.

And Michael doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t have to. He knows Ree, and she knows him. They’ve got each others’ back.

But talking to her requires being a little more awake than he is, so he takes a huge swig from his mug and sets it down. The coffee is good this morning.

“I don’t know! It looks like a fuckin’ genie bottle thing?” Ree makes a whole racket as she pulls a pot out of the pantry.

Michael shares a smirk with Alex.

“The oil light?” They say together.

“I just changed my oil, though!” Ree slams it down in the sink and starts filling it with water.

“What happened?” Alex asks. Michael takes his rag and starts looking for something else to clean.

“My accelerator stopped working, yo! You shoulda fuckin’ seen me, I was switching lanes at the light, you know?” Ree starts ranting off on her tangent. She mimics hitting her gas, and starts making dying-car-noises, and Michael snorts as he picks his target. He’ll clean the coffee shelf. It’s always covered in coffee dust.

“And like, my accelerator stopped in the middle of two motherfuckin’ lanes and I was stuck there, man! And people were swerving around me like, looking at me like-” Ree jumps in front of Michael and pulls a face. Michael has to smother his laugh under his hand.

Alex loses it, but Ree continues like she doesn’t notice. “And this crusty old ass dude was cursing me out, like it was my goddamn fault. And I’m yelling out the window, like, WHADDYA WANT ME TO DO! Like I CHOSE for my car to break down in the middle of two fuckin’ lanes. What a fuckin’ bitch, honestly,” Ree shakes her head. “I called Donna and she was gettin’ ready to pick me up, but then it started workin’ again out of nowhere. I don’t know man, but shit’s expensive and I ain’t got no money to fix that car.”

Michael’s bent over laughing, totally gone. “Ree, I swear to _God._” He attempts to pull himself together as Ree continues.

“But, what if like, something’s wrong with it, you know?” Ree goes back to restocking spinach as the pot fills. “And, bro, it didn’t help that I was smoking either, waving my blunt out the window at these asshole people swervin’ around me. I’m fuckin’ gone.” Ree stops and steals Michael’s gaze. “I’m so high, dude.”

Michael gives up and loses it all over again.

“Do you think you have an oil leak, or something?” Alex pipes up from the front counter.

“Dude, how expensive is that? I hope it’s just low, I don’t know!”

And Michael pulls bags of coffee off the shelf and gets to work as Alex and Ree discuss whatever could be wrong with her car. He gets in the zone, and pauses every few minutes to make drinks or take the register. And he lets the voices of these coworkers he adores wash over him, along with the chatter of the customers and music over the speakers. The sun is fully up now and the warm light pools inside, streaming over the old, faded wood floor. Mugs clink and friends meet and families relax and the entire world slows down a little.

It’s super chill now, but it’ll probably be slammed in a few hours, so Michael throws some espresso shots into his coffee to get himself prepared. He takes a sip, rubbing his thumb in circles over the smooth ceramic, and wonders how his life got to be so good.

And now, Michael is seriously questioning if he jinxed himself this morning by thinking that.

Because it’s the middle of the day’s busiest hour, and Michael is working on three different tickets with plenty more lining the counter, and he’s totally in his rhythm. His music is playing from his phone speakers beside the espresso machine, so he’s feeling good, even though Sophie had to call off so he’s pulling another double tonight.

But he’s fine, really. He’s on autopilot and is yelling back and forth with Ree and Alex and Ari, and even though they’re just barely keeping this rush under control, they’re just barely keeping it under control _together,_ so they’re in high spirits.

Especially Ree. Seriously high spirits.

They’re joking and hustling and things are going great, and Michael kind of slips on a rogue ice cube and almost drops a whole pitcher of iced coffee, but somehow saves it and turns his stumble into a slide, even though he seriously thought he was going to die for a second.

Then, Ree calls him Michael Mell-vis, which Michael doesn’t get because Ree is always making weird-ass connections and he’s in the middle of trying to remember which latte has almond milk and which has extra flavor and which is iced, and instinctively he yells back, “What?”

And she glances up from her twenty million food orders, looks him dead in the eye, and yells back, “ELVIS, MOTHERFUCKER!”

And Michael laughs, and it’s a really ugly laugh because Ree always gets him out of nowhere like that, yelling absolute nonsense, and Michael hopes she never stops, because these moments keep him going through these rushes and these long, long days. Ree makes Michael feel less tired.

“Ree, you’re fucking fired.”

“This place would fuckin’ fall apart without me,” She smirks. And yeah, Michael has to agree. It probably would.

Michael sets the pitcher down, and starts more shots, and is measuring syrup and listening to milk steam and watching the shots, and like always during a rush like this, not paying any attention at all to what’s going on at the front counter.

But in an instant, his focus does a complete one-eighty, and he can’t think of anything _except _what’s going on at the front counter.

Because someone just said his name. And it wasn’t Ari, and it wasn’t Alex, and it definitely wasn’t Ree.

And he almost falls to the ground without the help of a rogue ice cube, because he hasn’t heard that voice in years, and there is no way. And maybe he should stop pulling so many doubles because obviously the lack of sleep is making him hallucinate, because this can’t really be happening.

But it must be happening, because Alex sees him, too. And Alex is saying something to him, smiling with his customer-smile, laughing his please-tip-me-I’m-funny-laugh, and not at all aware that he’s standing in the middle of two world’s colliding.

And Michael full stops because his heart just skipped so many beats that it hurt, because his reality just flipped upside down, because of the timing of the universe, because he just found that old backpack, because he’s still not over finding that backpack, no matter how much he keeps telling himself he is—

Because, it’s just that by now, he’d finally accepted the fact that he’d never see Jeremy Heere ever again.

But, the universe always has this funny way of constantly proving him wrong.

* * *

"And maybe he should stop pulling so many doubles because obviously the lack of sleep is making him hallucinate, because this can’t really be happening."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by Al (@pomegrantaire!!) <3


	5. Chapter 5

_September, Senior Year_

Jeremy Heere hadn’t felt this okay since fifth grade.

He and Michael were back on track as best friends, again. His friend group extended past Michael, too, for the first time in ever. His dad was wearing pants and going into the office and actually smiling in the mornings, just like he used to.

And for the first time in his life, when Jeremy thought of his future, he felt hopeful.

And it was weird, to mix the words ‘future’ and ‘hope’ together, but Jeremy liked it, and well, he thought maybe he could get used to it.

He was excited for senior year, too.

High school was finally going to be over, after one last homestretch, and then he’d get to be cool in college with Michael.

And he got to do this one last year of high school with Michael.

Through everything, after thirteen years of friendship and getting through school together, getting through life and this last, awful, heinous year together, they finally made it to senior year.

Jeremy was excited about starting the school year for the first time in his life.

That was mistake number one.

Jeremy should really know by now not to get excited about things.

Excitement leaves room for disappointment. And the moment he lets himself go, the moment he gets ahead of himself and lets himself feel excited, that’s always, without fail, when things go wrong.

Because Jeremy wakes up on the first day of senior year, and wow, it’s not really hitting him until now. Yeah, it hurt at the time. Then he got angry, and upset, and confused, and of course he still is all of those things. But he doesn’t think it actually clicks until right now.

Michael is gone.

Jeremy wakes up to an alarm, so his day is already a little thrown out of whack because he hasn’t been woken up like that all summer.

So, the alarm goes off, which puts Jeremy into School Mode. More specifically, First Day of School mode.

And this is the problem. Every year, for as long as Jeremy can remember, on the first day of school he would have breakfast with Michael. When they were kids, it was at one or the other’s house. But, since high school started, they’d go out to eat after one or the other spent the night.

They did it freshman year. Sophomore year. Junior year.

And Jeremy is staring at the ceiling, now, thinking that he would give anything to get to do it senior year, too.

If he knew, last year. If he knew it was the last time. God.

And Jeremy just wants to turn that alarm off, pull the covers up, and pretend like everything is still okay.

But Jeremy has to get to school, so Jeremy goes through the motions.

He gets out of bed. He drinks water and digs through his closet for clothes and showers.

But none of it feels quite right, because Michael should be here.

Michael should be here in his flurry, running back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom, all chatter and no chill as he brushes his teeth and changes the shirt beneath his hoodie five times and does his hair, talking and teasing, voice carrying through the shower curtain, ignoring Jeremy whinging at him to get out already. Laughing and smiling and so brightly optimistic, no matter how negatively Jeremy spoke of this first day of school. Michael never shared those opinions.

But there's only silence on the other side of this curtain. There's no laughing, or door slamming. No footsteps or teases or jokes. Nothing at all.

So Jeremy's brain is telling him it's not the first day of school, and it’s not real.

And, God, why won’t his brain _listen_ to him?

This_ is_ real. This is really happening. Michael is gone.

He shuts the water off in the shower, wondering what he would tell himself, if he could go back. If he could find Jeremy at this time, a year ago.

If he could go back to eating breakfast with Michael, junior year.

Michael got those stupid Mickey Mouse pancakes because he thought they were funny, and he helped Jeremy order because Jeremy couldn’t decide. And Michael drank way too many coffee refills, so when Jeremy made him laugh first period, he burped up coffee everywhere, all over his backpack and desk, and Jeremy couldn’t stop laughing.

He laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe, and no sound was coming out, and Michael was laughing, too, and they got kicked out into the hallway, which of course only made them laugh _harder._ It was the last time Jeremy had laughed that hard.

And Jeremy’s heart aches for that boy. He had no idea, then, what was to come.

And as Jeremy pulls on his shirt, he wonders what he’d tell that boy, who thought everything and everyone was so critically important.

Who thought if Christine didn’t like him, his world would end.

Who thought it mattered what people at school said to him, even though he’d never even see them again in two years.

Who was so embarrassed by what Rich would write on his backpack that he’d walk through the halls clutching it tightly to his chest, so no one could see.

That boy who wanted everyone so badly to stop thinking that he was some loser, or geek, or _whatever,_ because, today, he can clearly see that none of if it fucking mattered.

And Jeremy just wants to go back and tell him.

Maybe he would tell him not to listen to Richard Goranski, not to take the Squip. Maybe he would tell him what the Squip really is, what Rich didn’t know at the time.

But Jeremy shakes his head and remembers how desperate he felt. Saying those things wouldn’t have worked. He wouldn’t have listened.

So, maybe instead he would tell him what taking that pill will do to that boy sitting across from him in the booth. That boy who trusts him so purely.

He would scream at him how that boy will stop trusting him. How he'll stop trusting, and stop talking, and stop telling Jeremy everything he used to.

How that boy will hurt, and how Jeremy won’t be able to do anything about it at all, because it was his fault to begin with.

Jeremy wishes he could go back to this time last year and scream and yell until he got it through that thick fog he used to have that it doesn’t matter what Rich says or what Chloe did or how Jenna talked about him. That, maybe, Christine will like him a lot sooner if he stopped _trying_ to be someone she could like, because Jeremy never had to try.

But, who the hell is he kidding? It never mattered anyways.

And why couldn’t he see, a year ago.

It never mattered, because he had everything he could ever need sitting right in front of him, across that diner booth, rolling up his sleeve to show him the gross, peeling, healing skin on his new tattoo.

But Jeremy couldn’t see that.

So maybe, if he went back, he would tell him how it really feels to have everything he ever wanted.

Because now, Jeremy has Rich and Chloe and Jenna’s approval, and Christine likes him, and the rest of school is tolerable, and everything he worried so viscerally about last year is exactly how he dreamed it would be.

He should be happy.

He has everything he ever wanted.

Jeremy never wanted Michael. Jeremy didn't know how much he needed Michael.

So Jeremy took him for granted. Even after he royally fucked up and almost lost him, he took him for granted_ still _because Michael was there, just like always. Michael was just there.

But Michael was different.

Michael stopped trusting and stopped telling and started hiding and hurting, but God, did Michael try so hard to make things okay again.

He didn’t have to, though.

Michael didn’t have to try. Michael just had to keep being Michael, because Michael was_ enough_ for Jeremy and Jeremy was just too goddamned blind to see it.

God, Jeremy _is _still too blind to see it.

Of course. That’s why Michael left him.

It’s Jeremy’s fault that Michael got worse. And it’s Jeremy’s faults that caused Michael to finally have enough and move on.

God, it was always Jeremy who had to try, not Michael. And Jeremy tried, but through all of that trying, he_ still _took Michael for granted. He still assumed that Michael would always be there, just like he always had.

And that was mistake number two.

Jeremy tried, and tried, so hard that he never bothered to stop and look. And in blindly thinking Michael would always still just be there, he didn’t see.

Michael never stop hiding things. He just got better at it.

Jeremy wasn’t looking hard enough, so he didn’t notice. And because of it, he didn’t see how bad Michael was getting.

He seemed like he was doing so well. He was smiling. He was laughing. They were best friends. They were getting better, together. They were okay.

Then, Michael left. A week ago, that last time, and there was this moment.

This brief moment, where Michael stopped hiding. Where he let that awful guard he built up around his eyes fall, and he let Jeremy see. And God, Jeremy saw.

It wasn’t the first time Michael let Jeremy see. It wasn’t the first time he let Jeremy in, after the Squip. But that first time, Jeremy missed it.

This time, Jeremy didn’t.

But it was too late.

Jeremy stuffs the cardigan he’s about to put on into his mouth and screams.

It was never okay, and now it’s too late.

He screams again, then uses a dry part of it to wipe away the tears now falling down his face. He screams some more, stuffing his cardigan back into his mouth so he doesn’t alert his dad to the fact that his whole world is falling apart right now because his dad is doing better, too. He doesn’t want to be the cause for that to crumble, either.

Jeremy balls up the cardigan and throws it on his bed, because he can’t exactly wear a spit-and-tear soaked cardigan to school.

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand and picks up his backpack.

And although he doesn’t look at that half-word scrawled across the back of it, he doesn’t hide it, either.

And instead of getting in Michael’s P.T. Cruiser and going to breakfast to celebrate their last year of high school together—to celebrate feeling hopeful in his future for the first time ever—Jeremy walks to school.

And now, instead of that wonderful hope, Jeremy feels this ice cold dread fill it’s place. And in this twisted way, it’s almost comforting, because unlike that hope, this feeling is familiar. He doesn't have to get used it.

Just like how he doesn't have to get used to that voice in his ear, reminding him exactly how everything really is all of his fault, so wonderfully familiar.

But it doesn’t affect him one bit. It’s just repeating what Jeremy already knows.

Jeremy catches the door to the loud, bustling atrium. He holds it out behind him, and he enters, but there's no one there to catch it. Jeremy drops his hand, reminding his brain, again, that it's all real.

And he wishes he could go back in time and tell himself exactly where he will be on his first day of his last year of high school, and who he won’t be with.

But if Jeremy were to be completely honest, he doesn’t think he would listen.

* * *

"They did it freshman year. Sophomore year. Junior year.

And Jeremy is staring at the ceiling, now, thinking that he would give anything to get to do it senior year, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry)
> 
> Chapter Art by Al (@pomegrantaire!)
> 
> Again, thank you all for your comments and feedback, they seriously keep me going. I really do live off of comments. Chapter six coming soon!
> 
> Also, my tumblr is queer-coffee I just realized I have only shared it maybe once? I post updates on my progress there sometimes, if anyone wants to check it out! My blog description and whatnot is kind of out of date but I'm fairly active!


	6. Chapter 6

Fives years. Five fucking years and the first thing Michael thinks when he sees Jeremy Heere is that his hair is different.

Shorter on the sides and a little floppy on top, and it really actually fits him, Michael thinks.

And he thinks someone else is saying his name now, but he also notices how Jeremy filled out that skinny high-school frame he had rather nicely. He looks a little taller, too.

Jeremy’s eyes are still that hazy, coin-fountain blue, though, and those gold flecks are there, and they’re widening as Michael looks and looks, and God, Michael could just fall right into them.

And Jeremy blinks and his mouth is moving, but Michael can’t really hear him.

And then, something bumps his shoulder, and everything crashes back into him.

The grinder on the espresso hopper is running loudly, and Ree is making a lot of noise in the kitchen, and steaming milk is screeching somewhere, and Alex is saying something to Ari with this weird look on his face, but his voice is blending in with the chatter from the other customers and music over the shop speakers, and the lights are really bright and it’s all so, so much.

And the sudden touch causes him to flinch back. His eyes unfocus on Jeremy Heere and instead land on Ari, who is giving him a weird look.

Her hand is hanging the air, too, and he realizes she must have grabbed his shoulder. Michael doesn’t like being touched like that.

“Michael, your shots,” Ari says.

But she doesn’t know that, and Michael blinks, and what Ari said is registering, and he looks over and realizes his espresso shots are pouring over. And now he can’t use them.

“Oh.” Michael stops the shots. And his milk is burning, too. He flips the lever on that, but he can’t focus his eyes on anything, and everything is melting together.

“Michael?” Ari says again, and as Michael dumps those shots, his body moving without him thinking, Michael glances at her to see her brows furrowing a little. Then his gaze shifts past her, and Jeremy Heere is there. Like, he’s really, actually there.

“Fuck,” Michael needs to ignore that right now. Michael has tickets. It’s a rush. And Jeremy Heere is right in his shop, but he has to not think about that for now, because he has drinks to make.

Michael shakes his head and has to tear his eyes away from the counter. He can’t deal with that right now, because if he thinks about Jeremy Heere for too long he won’t be able to focus on anything else and he won’t be able to do his job.

And Michael realizes Ari is still looking at him, and he’s still holding the portafilter and hasn’t started new shots yet, and he has a lot of tickets.

“_Fuck,_” Michael slams the portafilter on the bin to dump the old grinds, hard. A little _too _hard. Ari says something but he can’t hear it. He tamps new shots, which he isn’t going to over-pull, and starts them. Then, he dumps the milk he over-steamed because it’s scorched now, and restarts that too, and the whole time he can feel hazy blue eyes on him.

But he needs to not think about that right now.

“Michael,” that voice cuts him, and he has to shake his head to clear it, so he can focus.

“Bit busy right now, buddy,” Michael replies.

Wait, woah. Buddy?

Michael shakes his head. Old habits die hard.

“You okay, dude?” Alex is asking him and Michael can’t focus on that, either, because he doesn’t like that careful tone Alex is using on him, and Ari is still looking at him weird. And his vision is still a little fuzzy. And he has fucking drinks to make, but he can’t get back on his game—

And then, Ree yells at him.

“Michael, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

But she’s not _yelling_ at him. It’s just loud in here, and Michael knows she’s not really yelling, because she’s laughing.

Ree’s laughing. Ree is making fun of him.

Ree is laughing, and everything is okay.

Michael feels the fuzz clear and he can focus his eyes again. He looks over his shoulder at her. She sends him this exaggerated ‘what-the-fuck’ face, just like she always does when she makes fun of him. And he can’t suppress the laugh that comes out, right from his belly, because that’s what he always does when he sees that face.

“Don’t be a little bitch, Michael,” she grins. “ ‘Getcho head in the game, man!”

“I’ll fire you Ree, I swear to God,” Michael yells back, unable to stop himself.

And he has to lock Jeremy Heere back into a little box in his mind for now, even though it makes him want to scream.

“Too late, I already fucking quit!”

Ree keeps laughing, and Michael silently thanks her for it, because that sound is the only thing keeping him from leaping over the counter doing he-doesn’t-even-_know_-what to Jeremy Heere.

Meanwhile, Jeremy Heere is having a Moment.

Because it’s him. It’s really, honest to God, Michael.

And it was really weird, because Jeremy just said his name, and then Michael replied to him. And he called him buddy. And that exchange could have been pulled straight from high school.

Except afterwards, Michael pulled a face like he didn’t mean to say that, and instead of making Jeremy feel good, that word did the exact opposite because they haven’t been buddies in years.

“You know Michael?” Lisa says beside him. Jeremy just nods, because he can’t look away.

Because he’s too busy wondering when Michael got new glasses. Or when Michael last cut his hair—it’s a little longer than it was in high school, and it flops over that headband he’s wearing, almost into his eyes.

Or when he got that septum piercing. Or when he stopped wearing all of his bracelets.

Michael laughs again, at something someone in the back just shouted at him, and the sharp sound makes Jeremy realize he’s staring.

Jeremy looks away, down at Lisa. Lisa is giving him this bemused smile.

“Dude, what’s the deal?”

“I just. H-he-” Jeremy pauses and waves his hand in this dismissive sort of way. “Yeah, I know him.”

Uhhh.

“Do you know him?”

Lisa tilts her head. “I mean. I don’t, like, _know _him, but I’m in here a lot. He’s here all the time so,” Lisa shrugs. Her smile turns into a friendly one, but her eyes stay questioning.

Jeremy wraps his arms around himself. Then he realizes what he’s doing and drops his arms by his side. Then in his pockets. His eyes flick back to Michael, who is blatantly not looking over here. Jeremy relaxes. Kind of.

“God,” he mumbles, trying not to look, because he really doesn’t trust himself not to stare or say something stupid.

Because Jeremy still has Michael’s lanyard. His can feel it’s rough, worn fabric in his pocket, resting against his thumb.

And Jeremy still has this stupid picture he took of him late junior year stashed in his wallet. And he may have listened to a video of him singing along to skipping cassette tapes in his car last week, and Jeremy still hasn’t gotten rid of that light pink hoodie Michael left at Jeremy’s house and never came back for.

Michael never came back for anything.

Michael told Jeremy they’d see each other again, but he never came back. Not for Jeremy. Not for his second favorite hoodie. And Jeremy always wondered what he did to make Michael not even come back for that.

But now Michael is right in front of him. The real human person, not just an image on a phone screen or a wrinkled, stained photo that, halfway through senior year, Jeremy dug out of the garbage in the middle of having a panic attack because he’d thrown it out the night before, so angry that Michael wasn’t texting him back.

Jeremy still thought at the time that Michael would come back.

Jeremy shakes his head, and realizes he’s next in line.

At least Jeremy’s decision is made for him, because he definitely doesn’t want Michael to make anything for him. And isn’t the whole situation just so weird?

He suctions open the refrigerator door and grabs his soda, even though he really doesn’t want anything anymore.

“I, uh, I got it, Lisa,” he says to Lisa, because he’s here with her. And he remembers that he kind of likes her, and his plan was to pay for her, but now everything is kind of thrown out the window and he can barely think.

“Oh, thanks, dude,” Lisa says, squeezing his arm. Jeremy barely notices.

Lisa gives her order to the guy behind the counter. The guy behind the counter, separating him from Michael, who still isn’t looking at him because he’s currently pouring steamed milk into a mug, very deliberately.

Jeremy sees how his eyebrows are still pulled together, and his mouth is hanging open a little bit. It’s this look of complete and total concentration, and he’s thrown instantly back in time.

And he sees Michael, wearing his new favorite creeps shirt for the third day in a row, sans septum piercing and pulling that same exact face as he neared the end of a speedrun of Zelda, about to beat his record time.

Completely focused, not even blinking as Jeremy laughed and called his name from the basement door.

Then Jeremy blinks, and Michael is in front of him again, so quickly Jeremy thinks he got whiplash from it. Except this Michael is smiling a little bit and that tension between his brow has relaxed and he’s placing a latte with a delicate design on a small table near the front counter, right on a ticket.

The guy at that counter is saying something.

“Sorry?”

“It comes out to six fifty-four,” he repeats, and Jeremy doesn’t think he’s imagining that dirty look he’s getting.

Michael didn’t give him a dirty look, though. Not dirty, or angry, or upset, or bad in anyway.

No, Jeremy wouldn’t describe it like that at all.

But if Jeremy thinks about those wide open eyes anymore he might start crying, and he definitely can’t do that in front of Michael, or Lisa, or dirty-look guy, so he tries to ignore that image on replay in his mind.

Lisa is tugging at his sleeve.

“Where do you want to sit, Jere?”

Jeremy realizes he’s paid and still standing in line and needs to move because he’s blocking everyone and that guy behind the counter is still giving him dirty looks.

Michael isn’t looking, but Jeremy doesn’t want to be caught by him doing something stupid, anyways.

Then Jeremy reminds himself not to look at Michael. He steps out of line.

“You choose,” he tells Lisa, because he is bad with decisions even when his brain_ is_ functioning normally. And right now a thousand questions are slamming into his head, all at once.

Jeremy needs a minute to sort them out, but he’s here with Lisa, who is dragging him to a table, so he can’t sort them out, and he can’t think.

Lisa’s holding his soda, which he totally forgot about again. Then he startles, because he also realizes she’s pulling him along by his elbow.

“Come on,” And his heart leaps to his throat because Lisa is touching his elbow. And Michael is ten feet away from Jeremy. And he’s been dreaming and thinking and wondering about what he’d ever do if Lisa ever touched him like that. And he can hear Michael’s distinctive voice rise above the others behind him. And Lisa’s skin is actually making contact, and he _is _touching her like that. And Michael laughs again. The sound goes straight through Jeremy.

Lisa glances over her shoulder and catches his eye. “I _need _to hear about this. What’s going on, man?”

Jeremy tears his eyes away from her hand, wrapped around his arm, and looks at her.

And, God, does he wish he had an answer for that.

* * *

"Meanwhile, Jeremy Heere is having a Moment.

Because it’s him. It’s really, honest to God, Michael."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by Al (@pomegrantaire!) :)


	7. Chapter 7

Michael sets the last drink of the rush on its ticket, waiting to breathe until he’s sure no more tickets are coming.

He turns to face his bar, which is a mess of milk cartons, coffee grounds, syrup, and blenders. Like a coffee bomb went off.

He gets to work cleaning immediately, so he can’t give his brain any time to get distracted by what could still be in the seating area.

He empties out the portafilters and runs hot water over the dirty espresso shot glasses. He puts away all of the milk and rinses out the blenders. He dusts spilled grounds into the espresso bin, then dumps out that whole thing into the garbage. Then he rinses out every milk pitcher and puts all the syrups away and he restocks the empty ones. Finally, he wipes down the counter.

Then he wipes it again for good measure.

Alex sets another ticket down. Michael thanks him.

But soon, those drinks are gone too, and he cleans the new mess he made, and then wipes the counter one more time. And there are no more tickets for him.

Michael stands there staring at the counter. The focus Ree gave him is gone, now, and he’s finding it hard to think about anything other than those hazy blue eyes. That could still be in the seating area, for all he knows.

Michael gives in and lets himself look.

From his position by the bar, he can see out into the first room of Vagabond. Problem is, Donna wanted this living room-house vibe, so there are two rooms, and Michael can’t see into the other room.

And Jeremy Heere is not anywhere in the first room.

Which means he either left before the rush ended, or he’s still here, just over in the other room.

And Michael could just walk out and look into the other room to check, but what if Jeremy is there?

What if he isn’t there?

A bell dings somewhere to his right, and the shrill sound brings Michael back. He blinks and can see the kitchen again. Alex brushes past him to pick up the order Ree just dinged in.

Alex balances three plates on one arm, something Michael always wondered how the hell to do, and gives him a strained look as he pushes past. It’s his These-Fucking-Customers Face.

Rushes. Michael knows how that goes.

Then Alex’s face shifts into something more like confusion, and Michael realizes he’s still looking at Alex blankly, not returning the rush-face or smiling or laughing or anything like he’d normally do.

But Alex is gone before Michael can fix his mistake. He sighs.

Michael walks in a circle around the bar, making sure everything is still clean. A Barbie-blonde girl is standing at the register. And Alex is serving an order, and Ari is presumably out there wiping down tables, which means he has to take it.

And usually, it only bothers Michael a little bit when he has to take an order, because of the whole talking-to-strangers thing, but usually he can just put on a bright smile and cover his discomfort with jokes or put-on personality.

Right now, though, he’d rather hold his hand under the milk steamer than take an order, but this is his fucking job, so Michael takes her order. He puts on the best smile he can.

“Hey, how’s it hangin’?”

“Small caramel frappe. To go.”

Yup.

Michael makes it with extra spite, as fast as possible so he can get back to his crisis.

He gives it to her. She doesn't look up from her phone. Michael watches her leave.

It would be so easy. To walk over to the archway that separates the rooms and look.

But what if Jeremy is there? Michael would see him. Then would he just approach the table?

But, was Jeremy with someone? Michael can’t remember, because all he could see clearly was Jeremy. He wishes he’d taken a second to look, but of course it didn’t occur to him. So if Jeremy is here and he _is_ with someone, Michael would leave it be and get the hell back in the kitchen. But if he was alone? Would Michael just sneak back and pretend like he was never there? God, would Michael try to talk to him?

But it’ll take Michael a good couple of seconds to scan the area, and Jeremy could see him before he sees Jeremy. And then he’d _have_ to talk to him, right? What would he even say?

But there’s always the possibility that Jeremy is long gone, and Michael wouldn’t be able to say anything to him at all.

Michael can’t decide which is worse.

Michael realizes Alex and Ari are standing next to him.

“What?”

“That guy,” Ari says.

“You good?” Alex asks.

Michael just shakes his head. “Oh, man.”

He turns around and walks back into the kitchen before he does something stupid.

“Who was that guy?” Ari asks.

And how is Michael supposed to answer_ that?_

Ree is scrubbing a spot on her cutting board. “Yo, Michael, what the fuck happened?” She yells.

It makes Michael flinch. “Ree, you’re so loud.” Ree is always loud. Michael loves that Ree is loud. God, “Sorry.”

Ree’s eyes soften. “You’re good, man.”

“So this guy comes in,” Alex starts, and Michael doesn’t really want to hear this, but he doesn’t want Alex to paint Jeremy Heere as some bad guy even more, so he hangs around, wrapping his arm around a pole on the syrup rack.

“He looks over my shoulder, and then his eyes widen all crazy, and his mouth drops open, and it’s like he’s seeing a ghost, and I’m about to ask if he’s okay, but then he says ‘Michael’ and I’m like, okay. So he knows you,” Alex looks at Michael, who just hums to confirm.

“But then, I look over at you and. Well. You looked all out of whack. And, like, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve never seen you look like that, man. So I’m like who the fuck is this asshole to make our Michael look like that-”

“Jeremy’s not an asshole,” Michael says, and it just slips out all quietly, and he didn’t really mean to interrupt. But then Alex is looking at him and Ari is looking at him. And they don’t know.

But Michael realizes he just said Jeremy’s name, and shit. His eyes snap to Ree, because she _does_ know.

“OH,” Ree shouts, because she is incapable of shutting up. “DUDE! What the fuck, _he’s _here?”

“Who’s Jeremy?” Alex asks, looking between Ree and Michael and back again, “Wait-”

“If that guy was him, then yeah,” Ari says. Wait—

“What table?” Ree says. And she gets this really intense look on her face, and then she whips her rag down on the counter, and is walking around her cutting board and into the kitchen, and—

“He’s at six,” Ari says.

“Wait,” Michael’s heart stops, and Ree is stalking through the small kitchen, and Ree only ever leaves the kitchen to steal Pepsis from the refrigerator, and Michael doesn’t like that look on her face, and Alex looks all confused, and Ari just said that Jeremy is still here, and Jeremy is _still here,_ and it’s too much and too fast—“WAIT!”

And Michael realizes his breath is getting quicker, and it’s getting harder to breathe, but_ fuck _no he is at work and cannot do this right now in front of everyone, especially since he’s the shift leader, and would really like that promotion to assistant manager, and cannot get a panic attack at work like this—

“Fuck, I need to-” Michael shakes his head, already heading for the back door. “Step outside- I’ll be right back-”

Michael opens the back door as Alex and Ari start talking again. The last thing he hears as the door slams is Ree yelling at them to leave him alone.

The minute he’s outside, where there’s no noise and no customers and no clueless coworkers, and it’s only him and the dumpy concrete backyard, the bubbling panic in his chest begins to die down. He takes in a really glorious breath and lets his mind go.

Two panic attacks in one week?

Just like old times with Jeremy Heere.

Michael folds his arms behind his head so he stays open, and breathes and thinks about what to say to him. Because if he is here, he kind of has to, right?

And Jeremy kept saying his name, over and over, and Michael can’t get that sound out of his head.

It’s just the way he said it, too. Surprised at first, but each time he just sounded more and more disbelieving, but Michael was busy. Michael couldn’t do anything, and Jeremy wanted to say something.

Michael's chest tightens again. He reminds himself to breathe.

God, Michael could almost laugh. It’s either think about Jeremy Heere and feel so much he can hardly even get out of bed, it’s so crippling, or push Jeremy Heere as far from his mind as possible, and be so empty that he has to work four doubles a week just to feel something.

Michael drops his arms and goes back inside. Ree is back in her kitchen (thank God). Alex is at table two taking an order. Ari is doing dishes.

“Yo,” Ree says. Michael sends a peace sign her way.

“He left, dude,” Ari says.

And Michael stops, so suddenly that it takes his heart a moment to stop with him. “What?”

“He just left,” Ari says over her shoulder. “Were you gonna talk to him or?”

Michael blinks at nothing and shakes his head.

“No,” he lies. Because it doesn’t really matter, does it?

After working himself up like that. Fuck, it didn’t even matter.

And, yeah. Michael thinks this is worse. This is much worse, because now he doesn’t even have the option.

Because Jeremy just left.

But Michael has to remind himself that he doesn’t like feeling whack feelings over Jeremy Heere, and if he talked to him, those whack feelings would probably, _ definitely,_ come back. And who knows what might’ve happened then?

And it’s just because of the backpack, Michael thinks. It’s because he found that backpack that Jeremy Heere has been on his mind a lot lately. That’s all.

And he’s going to throw it out, and he’ll feel much better afterwards. And yeah, it was just a coincidence that Jeremy showed up so soon after finding that backpack.

Besides, he’s fine. He’s okay. And he’s been okay for these last few months. Yeah. And he thinks he’s on track to get even better. So he doesn’t _need_ to know how Jeremy Heere is doing or if he went to college or where he’s working or is he still thinks about Michael like Michael tries not to think about him.

He’s moved on.

So really, this is for the best.

Alex throws a ticket down on the table, rushing back into the seating room to take more orders. His voice echoes back into the kitchen as he laughs with a customer.

Michael looks at the slip of paper. He has to get back to work. He has to move on.

Besides, this whole thing was just an accident. Yeah. A freak accident, nothing more.

Michael starts more shots. He can feel Ree’s eyes on his back.

And he pushes Jeremy Heere out of his mind. And it’s hard. Much harder to do today, but Michael’s had a lot of practice. And he has to put his focus back on work, now. He needs to.

He’s working a double today, after all.

* * *

"The minute he’s outside... and it’s only him and the dumpy concrete backyard, the bubbling panic in his chest begins to die down. He takes in a really glorious breath and lets his mind go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by Al (@pomegrantaire)! <3  



	8. Chapter 8

Jeremy finds it extremely difficult to focus on what Lisa is saying to him, for the first time in probably ever.

Because Michael, Michael _Mell_, is in the other room. And those thousand thoughts hitting his brain at once are beginning to settle.

And Lisa is talking but he can’t really process what she’s saying.

“Wait. J-just,” Jeremy shakes his head. “What?”

“You look freaked, dude,” Lisa raises one perfect eyebrow at him.

“I-yeah.” Yeah, freaked. Freaked is a good word. “I just. P-processing.”

Lisa nods and takes a sip from her mug. Jeremy watches her purple lipstick leaves a stain on the ceramic, and now it’s smudged a little. There, on her lip.

“Wanna discuss?” Lisa asks. She brings one leg up on the chair and hugs it with her arm. Jeremy knows she does that when she’s comfortable.

So maybe she does want to hear about this a little, actually. And Dad always says that speaking things out loud helps when you’re struggling with something. And boy, is he seriously struggling, because—

“Michael was my best friend,” he says. “And I-I haven’t seen him since, like, just before senior year. And-uh. And.”

“Suddenly he’s here again?”

“Yeah.” Jeremy blinks and realizes he’s still staring at that smudged lipstick. He brings his eyes to hers. “And it’s just how things ended? Because we-we were best friends. And I did something, uh-” Oh boy did he do something all right. Jeremy shakes his head. “And I messed everything up. But things were getting better, and just as I thought everything was-was fine, he left.”

Lisa’s eyes widen a little. And her eyes are this really warm color, Jeremy thinks, like a melted copper penny. “He just left?”

“He left. One day, just. We were talking. Comparing, uh. Comparing class schedules, like we did like every year. And out of nowhere. Transferring. He was transferring, and then he left. And it was so-” Jeremy waves his arms around to punctuate, “-sudden.”

Lisa’s eyebrows come together, and she looks so sincere. And God, it’s something Jeremy’s always liked about her. Everything she does, all the time, is so completely sincere and to the point.

“Why?”

And it’s what makes her so difficult to lie to.

Because Jeremy doesn’t want to tell her why. He can’t.

And he didn’t really understand why, either. At the time. But as the years passed, Jeremy finally started to understand.

It all started with that moment Jeremy wanted for so long. The moment where he thought everything would start getting better with Michael. Right before senior year.

But, it was really the moment where he made certain, without even knowing, that things would never be okay again.

He just didn’t know.

They were so young.

Michael had called him. It was something Michael did all the time, before the Squip, but stopped doing after, unless it was something really serious. Jeremy rushed over.

_ July, Summer Before Senior Year _

Jeremy finds Michael sitting on his bed, up against the headboard.

His knees are pulled to his chest and his head is buried in his arms. It’s something Jeremy’s seen so many times before, and everytime he prays it’s the last.

“Hey,” Jeremy says, sitting softly on the edge of the bed. “I’m here, dude.”

No response.

“Did you, uh-” Jeremy scans the area and wills his hands to stop sweating like that. He doesn’t see any bracelets scattered on the floor, and instead finds them on Michael’s wrist. He lets himself relax a little. “Did-did you hurt, um—Did you do anything?”

Michael shakes his head. Then, he lifts it so his chin is on his knees, and Jeremy can see his face. Jeremy likes being able to see his face.

But right now, his forehead is all tense, and he’s chewing on his lip, and his eyes look so tired. So resigned. And Jeremy doesn’t like seeing his face when he looks like that. Not at all. “No.”

“That’s-that’s good,” Jeremy says. And God, he just doesn’t know what to do here. And the sucky part is that he used to know what to do, because Michael used to just _tell_ him. But not since the Squip.

Now Michael hides everything.

Michael shakes his head again. “I think, uh . . .”

“Yeah?” Jeremy nods. He needs to know how to help. He needs Michael to let him help.

“I think I have to tell you.”

Jeremy’s heart falls through the floor.

“You n-need to . . . What?”

Because he knows he caused Michael to do awful things, in those months he was blocking him, but Michael refused to tell Jeremy, all this time.

But Jeremy’s seen the scars.

And Jeremy doesn’t know how to make it better, because he can’t make something better if he doesn’t know for sure exactly what he did to make it so bad.

Michael looks him in the eye, and what Jeremy sees there now is something so desperate.

And God, Jeremy wants to make it better.

Michael looks away, back to his arm, as he concentrates on taking off his bracelets. Jeremy watches. Michael does it so easily.

And Jeremy’s heart is pounding, because this is it. This is what Jeremy has been waiting for, since he first saw that scar.

And it’s like a game show. Like the world’s worst game of _Wheel of Fortune. _And Jeremy hates himself for thinking that, because as the bracelets come off, Jeremy begins to make out the letters.

One at a time, messy and illegible unless you know exactly what it’s supposed to say. _Loser._

And it’s not the first time Jeremy’s seen it. He’s seen before it, helping Michael clean up other bad nights. Jeremy is used to Michael’s scars.

But this one always gets him, because Michael always refuses to tell him about it. And Jeremy can feel that mistrust hanging in the air, everytime he tries to ask.

But Jeremy has a feeling that’s about to end.

It’s this gut-sinking, heinous, awful feeling, but Jeremy needs to know. He needs to know exactly what he did to his best friend.

Then, maybe, they can move on.

Michael holds his arm out between them, and it’s the way he does it. Like he’s showing Jeremy a picture on his phone.

“Right after you left,” Michael says. Jeremy expects him to continue, but he doesn’t. And Jeremy is confused as to what Michael is trying to tell him, but then he tears his gaze away from the mark and up to Michael’s eyes. Then Michael’s eyes flick up to meet Jeremy’s. And oh. _Oh._

Jake’s party. In the bathroom. After he left Michael alone. After he called him a loser.

Michael did that in Jake’s bathroom.

When Michael was trying to help him.

No, not _help._

Michael spent what was probably days scraping the bottom of the internet barrel for what little information he could find about the Squips—to find out what the stupid microcomputer was doing to his best friend. Why it was causing his best friend to stop talking to him.

No, Michael wasn’t trying to help him. He was trying to save him.

And Jeremy stares at that mark, with this awful new information. That Michael did that, at Jake’s party, probably while he was talking to Christine.

And God, he was asking Christine out, while just down the hall, Michael was doing this.

This. In a bathroom, at a party. Wait.

Out of nowhere, it occurs to Jeremy that Michael hates parties.

Wait.

So why would he show up at one to talk to Jeremy? Jeremy never understood.

It didn’t make sense.

But, now.

He can’t believe he’s just now understanding.

Michael opens his mouth, but Jeremy is just starting to get it—

“You’re amazing, _Michael,_” Jeremy says, eyes widening. “You knew.”

Michael closes his mouth, then opens it again. “What?”

“You hate parties, Michael,” Jeremy shakes his head, because it’s hitting him, he’s starting to realize— “You hate parties. And I always _wondered,_ I never _understood_ why the hell you decided to try to talk to me at a party."

“But you figured it out, Michael, God, you’re so smart,” Jeremy shakes his head. Michael does, too. “God, you somehow found out that alcohol messes Squips up. And-and I’d be drinking. Because I was at a party—”

“Told you I did my research,” Michael says. And his eyes are so wide, and Jeremy doesn’t know what to do, because he still looks terrified.

“You hate parties,” Jeremy says, and his thoughts are racing, and he doesn’t have time to filter these thoughts before they’re words, because Michael is a _genius_—

“You hate parties, but you showed up, Michael. You somehow found out enough about Squips to know alcohol would mess it up enough to let me be able to see you. So you could talk to me. Oh _God_—”

Because Michael was looking out for him.

“And you were _right._ The Squip was fucked up, so I was able to see and hear you, and then you were able to tell me everything you found out—so you could-” and no, _God_ no—“So you could save me, Michael. So you could get your best friend back.” Jeremy runs his hands through his hair and shakes his head, because, God, he couldn’t have really done that— “And-And I-”

Because Jeremy wasn’t _listening._

“I told you you were_ jealous,_ Michael,” Jeremy hiccups and realizes he’s crying. “I called you-” Because Jeremy wasn’t_ thinking._ “I called you a loser, Michael.”

Because Jeremy wasn’t_ seeing._

That’s why Michael did it.

Jeremy looks at Michael.

But Michael isn’t crying one bit. Michael is just looking at him.

Jeremy couldn’t have really done that to him. But the proof is right there, still held out in front of him.

“And I left you to do that. In Jake-fucking-Dillenger’s_ bathroom._ I did that, Michael,” Jeremy shakes his head. “I-I did that to you.”

“No,” Michael pulls his arm back and looks at it with this blank curiosity that Jeremy never wants to see again. “No, Jeremy. You didn’t do this-”

Jeremy shakes his head, because _yes_ he _did._

Michael looks back at him. “No, you didn’t.”

“I’m so sorry, Michael.” Jeremy says, using the back of his hand to try and keep up with these stupid tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Michael looks away, and Jeremy knows what he’s going to say before he even says it. “You don’t have to be _sorry,_ Jeremy.”

“_Michael._” And why can’t Michael let him apologize? Why is it so hard for Jeremy to get to be sorry for making him feel like that? And why doesn’t he understand that—

“You are so. Just, so amazing, okay? And I don’t get it, why you don’t let me apologize to you ever? I try, and I try, and you don’t _let_ me.” It’s like—

“You don’t see how worthy you are of being apologized to. Like it was all your fault, what I did to you. It _wasn’t,_ Michael, and how do you not see that you deserve everything?”

Jeremy realizes he’s standing up now, but he’s not done, and Michael is shaking his head- “Michael, I’m so fucking sorry, and I get that you’re the one who-who did_ that_ to yourself, but I knew you might. I _knew_ you did that sometimes, though I don’t even understand why, and _God,_ Michael, why can’t you see it?”

And Michael is looking up at him, but that blank curiosity has been replaced by utter confusion, and Jeremy _needs_ him to understand-

And it’s so frustrating, because how can he not see—

And Jeremy is sitting on the bed again, and he’s so overwhelmed with this need for Michael, his best friend, this amazing human that he’s so lucky to even know, this need for him to see how _good_ he is—

“And God, I just don’t understand. I just, it doesn’t make sense, because you’re so _Michael_-”

And why can’t he see?

“And it doesn’t make any sense! How you can _hate_ him so much, how you hate yourself so much to do _that—_”

“_What?_” Michael interrupts. And Jeremy freezes, because that confusion all over Michael’s face clears like crystal, and his eyes widen.

“What?_ No, _Jeremy, I don’t _hate_ myself, God-”

But now Jeremy is leaning into Michael, into his wide, deep, brown eyes, because God he’s just perfect, but no he_ isn’t_ perfect, and that’s why Jeremy loves him so much-

And before Jeremy’s brain catches up with his body, his lips are brushing against Michael’s

And, _wow,_ he is going to kiss Michael.

And, _holy shit,_ he is going to kiss Michael—

But then, he feels hands pushing his shoulders back, and the weight shifts on the bed.

Jeremy opens the eyes he didn’t even realized he closed, and Michael isn’t there.

Jeremy sits back. Holy shit. What did he just _do—_

And where the fuck is Michael?

Jeremy stands up and turns around to see the basement door wide open.

Jeremy stares at it for one, two, three seconds before he realizes Michael left.

Jeremy slowly gets off the bed and follows, but this doesn’t feel real. This doesn’t feel real at all.

And he’s waiting for someone to come and tell him this is a dream, because this isn’t real at all.

Michael isn’t in the kitchen and he isn’t in the living room. And Jeremy is utterly confused until he sees the front door is just barely cracked open. Jeremy slowly walks up to it, feeling like the floor is slanted a little, and pushes it fully open.

Despite the time of year, it’s almost chilly outside. Jeremy wraps his arms around himself.

He finds Michael outside, sitting in his car. Jeremy opens the passenger door and sits, clicking it shut. The sound reverberates through the tiny space.

He takes the moment to wipes the tears and snot off of his face.

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy says, because he almost did that. And he totally just invaded Michael’s space like that, and Michael hates being touched unexpectedly, and oh God he just almost kissed him—

But, this time, Michael doesn’t tell him not to apologize.

“It’s okay,” Michael says. But he doesn’t look okay. “I mean, just. I don’t think,” Michael shakes his head and runs one hand up and down the steering wheel, which he’s looking at so intently. “I just. I don’t.” He grips the steering wheel. “I don’t feel that way about you, Jeremy.”

Jeremy tries not to think about why those words carve him out as much as they do, and definitely doesn’t dwell on why he almost kissed his best friend in the first place.

Because yeah, he loves Michael, but not like _that—_

“I’m sorry,” Michael says. And he’s still staring at the steering wheel, and that blank look is back, and Jeremy doesn’t like it.

“No,” Jeremy says. “No, uh. But. Uhm, thank you for telling me everything. Michael.”

“I didn’t.”

“Hm?”

“I didn’t tell you. You just put things together.”

Jeremy pulls his knees to his chest. It’s very quiet in this car, and very dusty. He looks at a beanie baby on the dashboard.

“Oh.” He put everything together.

God, he’s tired.

“I didn’t tell you anything.”

But Jeremy barely hears, because he can only think about how drained he feels as he stares at the dashboard. The analog clock tells him it’s just nearly three in the morning.

And everything is so quiet. And Michael told him. And Jeremy thinks. And he feels like maybe this is it.

He _needs_ this to be it.

Michael told him. Michael trusts him, again.

Maybe this is where feeling okay starts.

And only now, five years later, does he really understand how wrong his teenage brain was.

And he’s looking at Lisa’s deep brown eyes, so sincere, and finds it so hard to lie to them.

So he just shakes his head and says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“He doesn’t seem like it,” Lisa says. “But he sounds kind of like an asshole.”

Jeremy could almost laugh.

“Trust me,” he says, “he wasn’t.”

Somewhere far off, Jeremy hears a door slam shut. It snaps him out of it.

He looks down and realizes he never even opened his soda.

“C-can we get out of here?”

Lisa smiles at him. “Totally, dude.”

And as they leave, Lisa wraps her arm around his elbow. Jeremy looks down at her.

She’s smiling back at him.

But all Jeremy can see in those deep brown eyes is everything he couldn’t, all those years ago.

Jeremy glances over his shoulder at Vagabond. He has a feeling he’ll be back, real soon.

* * *

"'I’m sorry,' Michael says. And he’s still staring at the steering wheel, and that blank look is back.

Jeremy pulls his knees to his chest. It’s very quiet in this car, and very dusty. He looks at a beanie baby on the dashboard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by Al (@pomegrantaire!) <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **!! PLEASE READ FIRST !!**  
  
It is my recommendation (and I am using this word strongly) that, before reading this chapter, you read my fic _Touch_, as plot points and character developments from that fic will come in to play from here on out in this fic, in a major way!! It's 3 chapters, about 4.3k all together!
> 
> Link to _Touch_: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384417/chapters/46124707
> 
> Consider it like one of the flashback chapters, absolutely essential info to know for the rest of the story to happen! I apologize for shoe-horning another fic in here, but I really wanted to continue the developments from that fic here. Thank you so much!!
> 
> Anyways, now that you've read _Touch_ (*wink wink*), continue below! <3

“Don’t throw those away!”

Michael freezes, tray of old, stale cakes hanging onto life by the good grace of sticky frosting. He looks up to Slava, the night server, holding his hand out like he’s trying to use the Force on Michael. “What?”

“Put them in here, dude,” He insists, thrashing open a trash bag.

“Uhh,” Ari is putting the new cake delivery on clean trays back in the kitchen. Her last task before she gets to go home. “Explain?”

Michael shrugs and does what Slava says, moving the tray of ass-cake to his bag. And he knows he should just let it be, that he shouldn’t ask, but Michael just can’t help but wonder- “Why?”

“It’s my Cake Bag.”

“Uhhh.” Michael reaches back into the pastry case, pulling out a second tray of stale cake.

“What’s the plan for the Cake Bag?” Hector asks from the kitchen.

Ree got off an hour ago. Michael’s been feeling distracted since.

“Don’t enable him-” Ari warns.

“I’m gonna smash it.”

“Like smash ‘eat’ or smash ‘destroy’?” Hector questions, glancing up from the order he’s preparing to look at Slava for clarification.

“_Destroy._”

“Oooh!” Ari’s face shifts from judgment to excitement. “Can I stomp on it?”

“My dude, of course!” Slava yells. “I can’t wait to feel the Squish.”

“The Squish,” Michael repeats.

“Is this for science?” Hector asks.

“Oh, you betcha,” Slava kicks his Cake Bag as Michael dumps the second tray into it.

“Why is no one buying our cakes?” Michael frowns down at the third tray. “This tiramisu looks good. I’ve never even tried it . . .”

“Well, what’s stoppin’ you, dude? We’re just gonna toss ‘em anyway. Just-” Slava sets his bag down beside the kitchen sink and gives Michael a deadly serious look. “Put the rest in here when you’re done.”

“I’ve heard eating our tiramisu is like doing the cinnamon challenge,” Hector says.

Michael finds a fork from the dishwasher. “Guess we’ll find out.” And takes a bite. Cocoa powder explodes in the back of his throat, burning up through his sinuses. He starts coughing.

“No _way_,” Slava takes Michael’s fork as Michael continues choking.

“Aw, _man,_” Michael says as the last of the cocoa powder settles. “Don’t do it-”

But Slava’s already coughing.

“No way!” Hector says. Slava hands him the plate. He takes a huge bite, then raises an eyebrow as he eats it without coughing one bit. Slava watches in awe.

“But! How?”

“The trick, bro, is to not breathe when you eat it,” Hector explains. Ari scoffs. “You inhale, it’s all over.”

Ari slides another tray of fresh cakes into the front display, sending Hector and Slava her own what-the-fuck face as she passes. Michael dusts the cocoa powder off his shirt as he peeks around the corner to check the register. No new customers.

And it was so busy this morning. It was so slammed.

A great morning, then a huge rush, and Jeremy Heere was—

Michael stops and retreats back into the kitchen, trying to leave those thoughts behind, because he can’t think of—

“Cake Bag,” he says. “What’s the deal?”

“I’m gonna smash it,” Slava says. “Make cake poop and eat it.”

“Mmm, cake poop,” Hector hums. Ari laughs.

Michael thinks as he dumps the last tray of cake. “What’s gonna be the method of smashing?”

“I’m just gonna whip it around and _smash_ it real good against the wall out back, you know? And uh,” he nods at Ari, who’s sliding the last tray into the pastry case. “Ari wants to stomp on it.”

“Oh my god,” Michael suppresses a laugh at Slava’s bag-whipping-and-stomping pantomime. “Can I stomp on it, too?”

“Yeah, but,” Slava’s hand freezes, finger halfway poked into Michael’s abandoned tiramisu, and looks at Michael, panicked, “_don’t break the bag._”

“I’m not gonna-” Michael bursts out laughing, and he feels all of the weird feelings of the morning temporarily float away as he does. “I’m not gonna _break the bag._ Maybe you should double bag it.”

And Slava’s panicked look shifts to one of pure revelation. “Aw, dude! _Genius!_”

Michael’s eyes flick downwards to where Slava is still jabbing the tiramisu, leaving indentations all across the top layer. “Dude, what. Are you doing?”

“Oh,” Slava withdraws his finger and holds the plate out to Michael. “You gotta try it.”

And after a day like he’s had, Michael really can’t help it.

Michael pokes it and lets out a snort. “_Woah._ That feels _weird._”

“Oh, I’ve gotta try this.” Hector runs around his cutting board, and for a second it reminds Michael of how Ree did the exact same thing earlier today. Just after—

Michael shakes his head and pokes the cake again.

A weird distraction, sure, but effective.

“Woah,” Hector says.

“Is this also going in the Cake Bag?”

Slava’s eyes light up, and it’s in the way they do that Michael knows he’s about to say something either really stupid or straight up genius.

“Nah, I think we should put it out front for a discount: _Tiramisu: Gently Used._”

Michael looks down at the slice, the top layer is completely destroyed.

Michael smirks. “Ten percent off.”

Slava and Hector lose it. Michael laughs, too, shaking his head as he gets back to his espresso machine. The front door dings open.

Michael looks up, expecting another customer. But it’s no regular customer.

“Yo!” Michael yells, catching himself before he actually runs to the register. He can’t suppress the smile that takes over his face, because it’s the only person he’s been wanting to see all day, especially since—

_God,_ he’s got to stop.

“My _dude!_” Damien yells back, letting the front door shut behind him. “How’s it hangin’?”

“Hello-” Slava’s head pops out from the kitchen. “Oh, false alarm. Just Damien.”

“Hey, Slav,” Damien yells back into the kitchen. Then, he grabs the edge of the front counter for leverage as he leans in. Michael leans in, too.

And it’s the most perfect moment Michael’s had all day.

“_Gross,_” Slava says, dipping back into the kitchen.

“Did you listen to it yet?” Damien asks.

“Uh huh,” Michael nods, “and it _slaps._ But,” Michael continues as Damien steps around the front counter. He leans against the wall. “Your art skills need improvement.”

“You try sharpie-ing a cassette, dude. Not easy.”

Michael laughs. “I can’t-What is it even supposed to be?”

“You gotta figure it out!” Damien sings. Michael likes that secret he’s holding in his eyes.

Michael lets his laughter fade as he continues to look at Damien.

His Damien, with his faded jeans and way-too-big T-shirt, and orange aviator sunglasses poking out from his afro, and this leather bomber jacket. Michael looks at it.

“I’ve never seen that jacket,” Michael says. “New?”

“Oh, _yes,_” Damien says, pulling smartly at the open front. “Twenty bucks at the thrift store! _Look!_”

Damien turns slowly in a circle and shows Michael the back, then strikes another pose from the front. “It’s like, straight from the eighties-”

“Don’t say it, Damien-” Ari warns as she passes.

“-the _superior_ decade.”

“Oh, he said it!”

“Mmm,” Michael considers, “_wrong._”

“But the _politics_, yo! I mean, the nineties are a close second, I’ll give you that, but-”

“-And I won’t give you a coffee if you keep dissing my decade like that,” Michael tuts.

“_Oh!_ Got ‘em!” Slava taunts as he passes with an order.

Damien raises his eyebrows at Michael. “Agree to disagree?”

“All retro is good retro,” Michael concedes, leaning back on the front counter. “How was your first day of classes?”

Damien’s smile drops.

Michael’s heart does, too. “Yikes. That bad?”

“It’s not even over, man,” Damien says. “I just needed to see you before my last one.”

Michael raises his doubtful eyebrows at Damien, and pulls a portafilter out of the espresso machine. “You needed to see _me,_ or you needed to see me make you a coffee?”

“Uh, yes,” Damien smiles and points finger guns at him.

On the inside, Michael’s heart is fluttering, but on the outside Michael just rolls his eyes and starts Damien’s coffee. In the meantime, Slava and Hector explain to Damien the concept of the Cake Bag. (“Oooh, can I stomp on it?” “Uh, I’d be disappointed if you _didn’t._”) And the sound of the espresso hopper whirring fills Michael’s ears, and the sweet scent of the syrups clouds Michael’s senses, and the voices behind him blend together as his mind wanders.

Hazy blue eyes with coin fountain flecks.

It’s been so long.

Michael wonders—

“Hey, so, I was thinking tonight you could come over and we could have a Chill Night. It’s been a while, you know? We could get stoned and watch Space Odyssey,” Damien says as Michael hands him his drink.

Michael blinks. The eyes in front of him now are brown.

“What?”

And Damien’s fierce smile dulls around the corners.

And, oh. Michael didn’t mean to do that. Michael wants to fix it.

“Are you okay?” Damien asks.

Michael wants to fix it, but he can’t focus.

“Long day?” Damien offers.

Michael looks down at Damien’s loafers. His socks have elephants on them. “Yeah.”

“Maybe stoned Space Odyssey will help?” Damien bends down and tilts his head to meet Michael’s gaze. Damien’s full smile returns once Michael catches his eye, and Michael is confused.

Because that _should_ help. Stoned Space Odyssey with Damien sounds awesome, although the thought of calling it a Chill Night after their last one makes his stomach flip, but Michael’s mind can’t stay in one place, and he feels kind of really tired, and maybe it’s because—

—_Maybe_ some of these extra shifts are starting to catch up to Michael.

Yeah. It’s the extra shifts catching up with Michael.

That’s why he’s so distracted.

Nothing more.

Michael blinks into Damien’s gaze.

“Or maybe another night,” Damien says, and that bright smile shifts, and suddenly he isn’t looking at Michael anymore. Instead he’s walking back out to the seating area.

“Day, wait,” Michael starts, taking a step towards him. “I’m sorry. I’m. I’m just tired.”

Damien stops and looks at him. He gives Michael this half smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re always tired, Michael.”

“I know.”

“Uh,” Damien looks down and fidgets with the sleeve on his coffee. “You’ve been working a lot lately.”

Michael watches Damien, wishing he'd look back up at him.

“I know.”

Damien looks back up, but it's all wrong.

“Maybe you should call off tomorrow.”

Michael doesn’t drop Damien’s gaze.

He doesn’t want to be tired, and he _has_ been working a lot lately, but his coworkers have other things to do outside of work, and, well, he can’t just interrupt one of those lives to cover his own.

Besides, he’s the best cover they’ve got, and if he calls off, who’s going to cover him?

And if he calls off, then he’ll have even more time to think, and Michael doesn’t think he can handle that right now.

No, he can’t call off.

“Okay well,” Damien shrugs. “I gotta go to class.”

Michael starts following Damien to see him out, but Damien pauses in the middle of the seating area, stopping Michael by the register.

“Just, I’m not—” Damien turns around and walks back up to Michael. “Just text me if you change your mind. I’m not mad.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

And he shouldn’t apologize, but he just does that when he’s tired.

“Hey now, you’re just tired.” And Damien just smiles this small smile and holds up his hand. “Hand hug?”

Michael tries to return a smile of his own as he presses his hand against Damien’s, intertwining their fingers.

Michael breathes into the contact and rubs his thumb in a circle behind Damien’s.

And Michael feels better.

Damien’s always been really good about that. About how Michael doesn’t like a lot of touching.

And Michael tried to get over his touching thing. He thought he really could do it, too. With Damien. He thought he’d be able to go further with Damien. Further than Damien’s solution of Hand Hugs and short, but wonderful, kisses.

But full hugs still suffocate Michael more often than he’d like, and he doesn’t know why his brain won’t let him have even that, let alone more.

He suspects it’s this lingering, yucky thing from before he was even adopted, way, way back when he was under the care of some really awful foster parents. And he hates them for it, because now he doesn’t know what to do to get rid of it.

And Damien must want to do more. No, Michael _knows_ Damien wants to do more—But Michael couldn’t do it.

Michael just thought that, maybe, with time, he’d be able to give Damien more. He’d be able to do it.

And he wants to. God, he wants to. But his brain won’t let him.

Sometimes Michael wonders if it bothers Damien. But, well. Damien would tell him if it bothered him, right?

He can trust Damien like that.

And it took Michael much longer than it should any normal human to be able to trust like that, and Damien _knows_ that. Damien helped him through it.

But Michael still has to remind himself that. All the time, over and over. Damien knows, and Damien is okay with it.

Damien knows, and it’s okay.

Michael can trust Damien.

Still, sometimes Michael can’t help but wonder if this is enough for Damien. If he’s enough for Damien.

His wonderful, eighties-obsessed, mixtape making, dorky, stupid and stupid-smart Damien.

And even if he is enough now, he wonders how long it will be before what he can give isn’t enough anymore.

Maybe at some point, Damien will really want to move faster than Michael can go.

Then what?

Michael squeezes Damien’s hand and shakes his head.

Just some thoughts he’s been having lately.

“Tomorrow,” Michael says. “I’ll call off tomorrow.”

“Aw, rad!” Damien’s full smile blooms again. “I can’t wait.”

Michael sees it, and Michael fixed it. He can breathe again.

* * *

“Michael tries to return a smile of his own as he presses his hand against Damien’s, intertwining their fingers.

Michael breathes into the contact and rubs his thumb in a circle behind Damien’s.

And Michael feels better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by Al! (@pomegrantaire)!


	10. Chapter 10

_October, Senior Year_

No, nope, this isn’t really going to happen.

It’s not going to happen.

No, not right _now._

Okay, _God_, so maybe—

Yeah, no, it’s definitely going to happen right now.

Michael can’t wait for the end of the period. He has five minutes, but those are five long, long minutes. Three hundred whole seconds, and that’s so many seconds, and Michael needs to get out of here right now.

Mr. Garcia, though, definitely won’t let him go to the bathroom with just two hundred and ninety-five seconds left of class—

But, Michael has to leave now or else he’ll go into full-panic attack mode before those seconds end, and God, that was humiliating enough back at Middleborough.

But, here? He doesn’t really know anyone, still, and he’s just that weird stoner kid who transferred senior year, and he is _not_ about to be the weird stoner psycho kid who has a mental breakdown in the middle of a viewing in Film Lit because he can’t stop thinking about how saw this same movie with his ex-best friend one time, and it was one of the best nights of his life, and he really wishes he could tell him—

And Michael puts a hand over his mouth before he lets out a sound, and _yeah, _these last two hundred and eighty seconds of class can fuck right off.

Michael grabs his backpack by the handle and books it down the aisle as he starts to lose control, and God, why is this aisle so narrow? And he knows in his rush he is definitely brushing against papers and knocking things over and he_ definitely_ accidentally kicks the shin of this kid with an afro in the back row, but he doesn’t care because he needs to get out, like, right now.

Michael makes it to the door, fumbling with the handle twice. He shuts it behind him as quietly as possible.

After the darkness of the classroom, the bright fluorescent lights in the hallway hurt, and it’s hard to see clearly, but as soon as that door is closed, Michael takes off. He doesn’t drop his hand, though, as he hallway-speedwalks to the bathroom, because it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking.

And Michael is somehow able to hold back full-panic mode, but it’s a close thing. He crashes through the door into the bathroom, does a quick stall check, and the minute he knows he’s alone, he drops his hand, and it hits.

Michael bends over, and his breath is coming so quick, and leaving even quicker, and his vision starts going fuzzy because of how human bodies need oxygen to function, and his body is failing hard at doing that.

And his knees hit the ground hard, but it barely hurts, and Michael need some distraction—

And it’s not enough—

And he never should have left Jeremy, what was he _thinking?_

Jeremy would know how to help him right now. Jeremy would know how to stop these thoughts. Jeremy would sit here and talk to him and tell him little stories about his day, and it would bring Michael down. It would distract him and comfort him. Michael needs another person to bring him down.

Michael needs a distraction, and he can’t think about his other person since that’s the whole _reason_ this is happening in the first place. Since he left him, God he’s so _stupid—_

He’s never been able to bring himself down by himself. He _can’t_ bring himself down by himself, because, when he tries—

Michael falls backwards, so he’s sitting, and as he comes down he hits the back of the head against the wall—_hard._

And it hurts, but it distracts him, and Michael can almost think clearly again, for the briefest of seconds.

And this is why he needs another person, because when he’s by himself he does stupid shit like this—and he knows it’s stupid, and he knows he shouldn’t, it’s just the only way Michael knows how to distract himself when he’s feeling too much, or bring feeling to his body when his mind isn’t feeling anything at all.

But, at least he’s at school right now, and not in his basement, so he can’t _really_ do anything.

Michael could do a lot more in his basement.

And he wants to be in his basement, because here this brief relief, this pain on the back of his head, is fading. And it’s not _enough_, and he feels himself breaking, because, God, he wishes he was back in his basement now, where he _could_ do enough.

And this frustrates Michael, because when he’s not breaking, when he _can_ think clearly, he wants to stop doing this. He doesn’t want to keep doing this to himself.

And sometimes he has rare moments, like now, when, even though he’s breaking and losing his mind, he remembers how much he doesn’t want to keep doing this to himself. And in those rare moments, he always calls Jeremy so he doesn’t do anything to himself. Jeremy won’t let him, and he’d never, not in front of someone else. But now he can’t. And he did this to himself. Michael just wants to call Jeremy, but he can’t.

Michael just wants to go home.

Michael pulls his hair and buries his head in his knees, and closes himself out from the world so he doesn’t do anything else stupid, so he doesn’t do it again—

God he’s at _school,_ and there are other people here, and he can’t get like this here—

And suddenly, something is touching his knee, and that sends a different jolt of panic through his brain.

Michael startles and pulls back out of reflex, but he’s already against the wall so he just hits his head again. This time it’s an accident, though.

But the pain does it’s job all the same, and now whatever was touching his knee is gone, and for a wonderful, distracted second, he can see.

Eyes, such a deep brown that they almost blend in with their pupils, widen in surprise. They catch Michael off guard. His breath stops ahead of his brain.

That’s a distraction, Michael thinks.

Then they blink and Michael realizes that those eyes belong to a person, and he was staring—

“Ouch, dude,” this person says.

Wow, and it doesn’t really match, because this person’s voice is really deep, but he looks like the world’s biggest_ geek. _

He’s skinny and pimply. And he’s wearing these huge, plastic aviator glasses, and that dusty blue jacket is the ugliest thing Michael’s ever seen—

Then, Michael’s brain catches up with his body, and he’s breathing again, but it’s still not right because it’s still too fast, and it hurts, and Michael wants it to stop, but he doesn’t know how.

But now there’s another person here, and he looks really competent, even though his eyebrows are disappearing into his big, black afro.

And, fuck, this is the guy Michael just kicked in the shin, back in class—

“I-” Michael says, but he chokes on it and he still isn’t really breathing, and wow, he’s going to die like this.

Shin-kick guy’s eyebrows knit together and he looks worried. But he can’t look worried like that because Michael needs someone who can help him. Sometimes Jeremy looked worried like that, and whenever Jeremy—

God, _Jeremy._

A second wave crashes over Michael and he has to bury his head back in his knees to muffle the sound that comes out because, fuck, there’s another person here now—

And it’s so embarrassing, and God, this guys’s going to tell the whole school, isn’t he? About the weird retro stoner kid who’s losing it in the bathroom.

“Hey, hey,” he says. Michael shakes his head in his knees. This guy should just go back to class, Michael thinks. This guy’s not Jeremy, he doesn’t know what to do— “It’s gonna be okay-”

“No it’s _not_-” Michael says, because it isn’t, because- “I _left_, it’s—my fault—”

“Hey, doesn’t matter,” Shin-kick says. Michael can hear a backpack unzipping, somewhere far away. “Uh, even if it was, man. It’s-It’s gonna be okay.”

And his _voice_, Michael shakes his head. It’s so deep and bouncy, and Michael thinks this guy should have an ASMR podcast or something, and God, Michael needs to focus. He needs to focus on getting through this. His chest is on fire, and he’s going to fucking die if he doesn’t breathe, and maybe-

“What do I-” Michael coughs. “I can’t- I can’t breathe-”

“Oh, _right_, man. _Priorities,_” Shin-kick guy says. “Breathing is like, number _one_ priority for humans, yeah?”

Michael’s breath catches again, but this time it catches in a laugh, because that was such a stupid thing to say. Shin-kick probably can’t tell, though.

“Here, uh, can you look at me?” Shin-kick says, and Michael thinks maybe he can do that. He focuses on just that.

So Michael lifts his head, and he catches those eyes again.

“Great. Good, perfection, man,” he says. Michael could listen to that voice forever. “Okay, we’re going to count backward from a hundred, okay? Uh, by threes. Can you do that with me?”

Michael hiccups, and yeah this needs to stop, so he thinks maybe he can count. He can do that. Michael nods.

“Okay,” Shin-kick says, and nods back.

And his voice isn’t matching, still, because even though he looks really nervous, he sounds so sure. “Okay, ready?”

“One hundred,” they say in unison. Michael’s breath stumbles over it, but Shin-kick holds his gaze.

“Ninety-seven,” And Michael can’t remember. Ninety seven minus three, he thinks it’s-

“Ninety-four,” And ninety four minus three is easy.

“Ninety-one,” Michael’s breath is still bumpy and shaky, but Shin-kick doesn’t drop his gaze, and he keeps nodding, and Michael really likes how Shin-kick’s forehead is starting to relax at the same rate Michael’s breath is. And he barely has to think about—

“Eighty-eight,” And Michael coughs and stumbles, but Shin-kick keeps going, onto to- “Eighty-four.”

But, at the same time, Michael says “Eighty-five.”

And wait—

He feels his face shift, and he looks at Shin-kick, and Shin-kick’s face also shifts, and they’re looking at each other in total confusion. “Huh?”

And then Shin-kick’s face clears right up and he laughs.

“Oh, I guess it is eighty-five.”

And Michael giggles, then Shin-kick Guy is smiling, and wow it’s such a bright smile, and Michael laughs harder because laughing is such a good distraction from this. And then they’re laughing together, and Michael thinks he’s breathing, again. Almost like a normal person.

And each breath hurts, and his eyes are tired, and his throat is so dry, and everything in his head is so congested, and his face and hoodie are covered in snot, spit, and tears. But he’s breathing, and Shin-kick is laughing, and maybe he won’t tell the whole school.

He doesn’t look like the type the whole school would listen to, anyways.

Then their laughter dies down, as quickly as it came, and fuck. Michael is exhausted.

Shin-kick guy sits back across from Michael and exhales. He looks tired, too.

Michael looks down. His head feels really, really fuzzy. And he can’t quite focus his eyes on anything. He closes them and focuses on breathing, instead, because that’s back to normal. He breathes, and feels his whole body become heavy with fatigue. Somewhere far away, lockers start slamming.

Michael doesn’t want to leave, yet, though. And Michael should say something. He opens his eyes and blinks at the grout on the tile.

“Sorry for kicking you,” is what he lands on, because he’s a genius.

Shin-kick pig-snorts into his hand. Yeah the school _definitely_ doesn’t listen to this guy. “I’m totally gonna press charges, you know.”

“I’m sure,” Michael says, and he opens his mouth to say something else, but then as he looks up, he notices that this guy’s hideous powder-blue jacket has _patches_ on it, and Michael’s brain takes a detour. “Yo! Sick patches!”

“_Yeah!_” Shin-kick says, and his eyes light up as he tugs at the open front of it. “Oh man, I just _knew_ we’d be on the same page, ever since I saw your rad patches-” He says, and then raises his hand up, and before Michael can stop himself, Michael flinches back.

And _fuck_ his brain, because obviously Shin-kick was going in for a high five, but it’s just this stupid reflex he’s had ever since fostercare—

And that hand drops a little and Shin-kick looks confused, and then a little sad, and Michael didn’t mean to do that, he didn’t want to— “Sorry,” he says, and he hates that panic that’s back in his voice. “I just, uh- I don’t-”

But Shin-kick just waves his hand dismissively, “No worries, dude,” and he looks so sincere about it, and Michael is confused. “I shouldn’t’ve.”

And, wow. No teasing? No weird looks? Cool patches?

Michael wants to know more.

Then Shin-kick’s eyes look down at his open backpack. He reaches in and pulls out a metal water bottle, covered in stickers. He holds it out to Michael. “Here.”

Michael takes it, and stares at it.

What a nice thing to do, Michael thinks. He didn’t have to do that.

He didn’t have to follow Michael to the bathroom. He didn’t have to deal with Michael’s panic attack. He didn’t even have to give him water. And the thought pulls at Michael, in this weird way, and he could almost cry.

“Thank you,” Michael says. And he looks up into those eyes. “Um?”

“Damien,” he answers. “It’s Damien.”

“Michael.” Michael twists the cap off of the bottle.

“No problem, Michael,” Damien smiles. “I got you, man.”

* * *

“Eyes, such a deep brown that they almost blend in with their pupils, widen in surprise. They catch Michael off guard. His breath stops ahead of his brain.

That’s a distraction, Michael thinks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by the AMAZING Al!! (@pomegrantaire)


	11. Chapter 11

Jeremy is blinking at his laptop screen. The little black line is blinking back.

Jeremy pushes his glasses up. He needs to finish this paper.

Then he puts his hands on his keyboard. He’s going to finish it.

But then his thoughts trail off without him, and leave him behind with his hands hovering over the keyboard, and he has to go chasing after these thoughts again, because they won’t stop doing that, and this paper is due by, like, tonight. So they can’t be doing that.

And it shouldn’t be this much of a problem, because really, he had time to finish it after work, but then Lisa wanted to get coffee. And that was definitely a valid excuse for putting it off another hour. Then he’d definitely do it after that, with plenty of time left.

He had his whole life planned out as they walked into Vagabond.

And then Michael was there.

And now those plans are thrown out the window because his brain is refusing to focus on anything else, and he is running out of time to finish this stupid paper.

And instead of finishing this stupid paper, he’s thinking about what he might say to him, if he got to talk to him. What he would say first, and then maybe what he’d say second, if they got that far.

And then maybe, if they got farther than that.

But what would he say first?

And God, Jeremy needs to finish this paper.

Jeremy rubs his eyes, knocking his glasses out of place.

A door-slam startles Jeremy. He drops his hands to see his room-mate-slash-current-best-friend throwing him a half wave from her bedroom door.

“Oh my god, you scared me,” he says.

“Yo,” Christine strides from her bedroom to the kitchen. “A little jumpy today, aren’t we?”

“Mm.” Jeremy looks back at his laptop.

He hears Christine shuffling through cupboards somewhere to his left. “Something happen?”

“Uhh,” Jeremy says, staring at the blinking line, and he doesn’t really know how to explain the something that happened, so it’s time for Operation: Distract Christine. “How’re rehearsals?”

“Oh!” Christine slams a cupboard, setting Jeremy on edge, again. “So far, so awesome! I’m learning a lot, dude. I mean,” Christine’s talking-speed picks up, “I’m still low-key in shock I even got this job, you know? And it’s only been a week and we’re already delving so deep into the process. I just! Mind-blown!”

Jeremy looks back to Christine, who’s ripping open a tea packet a little too excitedly, grinning ear to ear. “I can’t believe it.”

“You’re liking directing so far?”

“Well, assistant directing. But this project is just so exciting. And it’s regional, but it’s still a real, actual job in theatre. And I need these assistant directing credits to ever be taken seriously as a director, if I decide to do that, you know? But, still, I’m just AHHH!”

Jeremy smiles back. At least someone here is having a good day.

“But you don’t look very ‘ahhh’,” Christine accuses, shooting him a glare, filling the electric kettle from the tap. “What’s up?”

Operation Distract Christine: Failed.

Jeremy looks at her, and he doesn’t know exactly what to say, still, because this is just such an out-of-the-blue odd thing to happen.

Because, when Michael left, Michael _left._

And Jeremy knows it hurt Christine, too. Not nearly like it did him, but she was still upset. Everyone was.

“I, uh.” So Jeremy can’t just keep something like this from her. Especially at the rate it’s taking up his brainspace. “I-I saw Michael today.”

“Woah,” Christine drops the travel mug she was holding, but like a boss, scoops it out of the air before it hits the floor. “Mell?”

“Mell,” Jeremy nods.

“_Woah,_” Christine sets the mug on the counter. “How?”

“After work, I went out with Lisa-”

“_Oh?_”

“Well, not like _out_ out, but we just got coffee together, but we kind of didn’t really because I was all—” Jeremy waves his hands around to clear the air. “Anyways, we go to this coffee shop, Vagabond?” Christine shakes her head. “Well, we go there, and he was there. Like, working there.”

“Oh my God.” Christine looks down to her mug. And then this weird, static hush falls over the room. All Jeremy can hear is the whir of the electric kettle working.

Jeremy watches Christine stare at her mug, but her eyes aren’t focused.

And Jeremy watches and wonders, because Michael’s sudden disappearance _did_ upset her.

Jeremy watches and remembers.

After the Squip, Michael sometimes talked to Christine when he felt like he couldn’t talk to Jeremy.

And Jeremy was so hurt over it when he found out. Because they were best friends who used to tell each other everything. Then, Michael never told him anything, and started telling other people, instead. People like Jeremy’s then-girlfriend.

Jeremy didn’t understand at the time.

But now, Jeremy understands how truly amazing a listener Christine is. How Christine tries so hard to help her friends through anything and everything, even when she’s going through things herself.

And, of course, he _always_ understood how Michael was a great listener. And how Michael tried to help his friends, even when his own world was falling apart.

He can see it, now. How Michael and Christine could have been great friends. They both listened so well. Maybe they could have helped each other, more. They could have heard each other, if they had more time. If he let them have more time.

Jeremy was never a great listener. He can see that now, too.

He just wishes he did at the time.

“What did you say to him?”

Jeremy realizes he’s still staring at Christine.

“I didn’t, uh. I couldn’t,” Jeremy shakes his head. “I couldn’t say anything,”—they couldn’t talk—”They were really busy, and he was working, but . . .”

They couldn’t talk, but there was that split second. When they saw each other.

“But?”

They saw each other, and Michael’s eyes opened all wide. And his mouth fell open, too, just a little. And he didn’t look mad, or angry, or like he never wanted to see Jeremy again.

No, he looked like none of those things. And Jeremy couldn’t figure it out.

But then, there was a split second, where Michael’s eyes shifted.

It was almost. God, he almost looked like . . .

Jeremy feels himself begin to smile, but he catches it in time.

Because for that split second, no time had passed.

For a split second, Michael looked as if he wanted to jump over the counter and do that old, stupid handshake. Like he wanted to tell Jeremy about a documentary he saw on Discovery last night. Or like he wanted to recount his 7-Eleven run to Jeremy, then ask him if he’d be down for getting stoned later, or maybe if he wanted to play video games in his basement after school.

He looked at Jeremy, for the briefest of moments, just like he used to. All the way back in highschool.

For a split second, nothing was different.

And it happened somewhere between Michael looking shocked and Michael looking confused and full of this weird regret. This split second. And Jeremy is _sure_ he wasn’t imagining it, because he can’t stop thinking about it.

“Nothing,” Jeremy says. “I was just imagining stuff.”

“Michael Mell,” Christine says under her breath. “God, I haven’t seen him since eleventh grade.” Christine is staring at her mug, again. “I wonder how he’s doing.”

“Me too.”

Christine shakes her head when the kettle clicks off. “Are you going to do anything about it?”

Jeremy looks longingly back at his laptop, at that blinking line. He has a paper to finish. He can’t think about what he might-or-might-not do right now. If he does, he definitely won’t have anything to turn in tonight, at the rate this is going.

“I don’t know.”

“Shit,” Christine is looking at her phone. “I can’t be late.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Jeremy replies. “I gotta finish this thing.”

Christine closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s one of her methods of resetting, Jeremy’s noticed. She opens her eyes again, and smiles.

“Finish your thing!” She yells as she throws her bag over her shoulder, grabbing her tea from the counter. “See you!”

And then Christine is gone. But Michael still isn’t. Michael is taking over Jeremy’s brain, and he can’t because right now _The Odyssey_ needs to be taking over Jeremy’s brain so he can write this paper.

And Jeremy does. But, right before Jeremy starts typing, that split-second look flashes through his mind, again, one more time.

He needs to figure this out.

~~~~~

Jeremy needs to figure it out. So why can’t he get out of his car?

He’s been sitting here for twenty minutes. He should get out of his car.

But say he gets out of his car. Then he’ll walk over to Vagabond, and Michael might be there.

And then what?

Jeremy doesn’t know. But isn’t that the whole point of him even being here right now? To talk to Michael?

Michael could be just down the block. Jeremy is a thirty second walk from where Michael could possibly be.

Jeremy puts his hand on the door handle. He’s going to do it.

He is going to pull the handle, and then he actually _does_ pull, but wait—

What if Michael doesn’t want to see him?

Jeremy drops his hand. The handle thwaps back against the door. Michael not wanting to see him is a very real possibility.

And does Jeremy really want to be that person who ambushes Michael at work, where he’s stuck?

No, Michael probably doesn’t want to see him. And why is this even a _question?_ Michael hasn’t even tried to talk to Jeremy in five years. Of _course_ Michael doesn’t want to see him.

And all of these thoughts that Jeremy couldn’t get out of his brain yesterday, every reason that Michael doesn’t want to see Jeremy, return.

And, God, this whole thing was stupid. He stops playing with Michael’s lanyard, and starts putting the keys in the ignition. He’s being stupid, and he should leave.

But Jeremy pauses, right before the key slides in, because that image flashes through his brain, again.

That split second look.

And he’s been trying to forget, but Jeremy’s never been able to forget moments like that. Moments where he’d kill to know what someone else was thinking about him.

And in that split second, Michael looked like he had so much to say.

And shit, Jeremy wants to hear what Michael wanted to say.

Even if what Michael actually wants to say is that Jeremy should leave and never come back and that the last thing he wants to see is the face of the guy that ruined his life—Jeremy still wants to hear Michael tell him.

And he should really get on that now, because Vagabond closes in an hour.

Jeremy grabs the handle, throws the door open, gets out, slams it shut behind him, then starts walking before he can convince himself not to.

And he’s walking, and what if Michael isn’t even working today? Then it’s all for nothing. But Lisa said how Michael’s always there. So maybe—

But what if it’s busy again and Jeremy can’t talk to him? God, that’s almost worse. But, Lisa said they’re always dead at night. And Lisa is always right.

And Jeremy is walking, and he is almost to Vagabond, and he’s about to get to the door, and then he’s _at_ the door, and he should turn to go inside now, but his feet keep walking and soon he’s on the other side of the store front.

Jeremy stops himself and turns around. _God._

Jeremy walks back to the door, and shoves it open. A bell above him dings, and the sound goes right through him.

And he can’t leave now. Holy shit. What was he thinking? He can’t leave now. And suddenly it’s hard to remember that split second, and so easy to remember every reason Michael might never want to see him again.

Jeremy’s eyes scan the area. There are a few people scattered around chatting, or on laptops—definitely slower than before—then his eyes dart to the back.

Behind the register is a guy Jeremy’s not seen before, hunched over, writing on receipts. Not Michael. At least it’s not dirty-look-guy, either.

But there’s no one visible in the room behind this new guy. So Jeremy can’t relax.

But, if Michael was there, Jeremy definitely wouldn’t be relaxing, either, so.

“Hey!” The guy looks up and smiles. “Dining in or taking to go?”

And Jeremy did not rehearse this. Even after all of that thinking yesterday, he was really hoping Michael would just be here, and he did this so on a whim that he didn’t plan for that to not happen, which was stupid.

And then he realizes he never even planned on what he’d say to Michael if he even _is _here. Which was stupider.

Oh, God.

“I’m uh,” Jeremy says, and even though his heart is pounding, he somehow gets the question out. “I’m actually looking for M-Michael?”

But the guy at the counter just continues smiling as he says. “Oh, sorry dude, he called the night off.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

“I mean, if anyone needs the time off it’s definitely him, am I right?”

Jeremy barely hears him.

“Are you a friend of his?”

And yeah, no. Jeremy should just leave. This was a bad idea.

“Nevermind,” he says. “Th-thanks, anyways.”

And the guy behind the register gives him an odd look, but Jeremy doesn’t care. Jeremy couldn’t care less, because Michael isn’t here.

And Jeremy leaves, without talking to Michael, because _shit,_ Michael isn’t _here._

And Jeremy hates how there’s this voice in his head saying _‘maybe next time.’_

And he hates how it’s right, because despite what he wants to tell himself, he knows this isn’t the last time he’ll work himself up so much just to walk into a coffee shop.

Yeah, maybe next time.

* * *

“I-I saw Michael today.”

“Woah,” Christine drops the travel mug she was holding, but like a boss, scoops it out of the air before it hits the floor. “Mell?”

"Mell,” Jeremy nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by Al! (@pomegrantaire)!! <3


	12. Chapter 12

_November, Senior Year_

Christine loves Jeremy. She really does.

She’d do anything to make him happy. She enjoys his company and likes the sound of his laugh. He’s adorable and dorky and really weird, just like her. It’s cute when he gets flustered around her and he kisses so nicely. He makes her smile. He makes her happy.

Christine scribbles all of this down in her chemistry notebook. And she looks at it, and looks, and looks, and is so confused because, on paper, it should be working.

And Christine knows herself, and knows she loves him. There is no question about it.

It should be working.

But it’s not.

Christine sighs, then apologizes to Mr. Kozlov because she forgot she’s not supposed to sigh like that in class. Then she goes right back to staring at these notes in her notebook that have nothing to do with chemistry.

She loves Jeremy, but lately, Jeremy hasn’t been getting flustered around her. Lately, he’s stopped kissing her.

And, on paper, she should be upset over it, or maybe be angry, or find it weird how he’s not doing what he used to with her.

But she doesn’t feel like that at all.

Instead, she finds she doesn’t really mind.

In fact, she’s, guiltily, a little glad over it, because lately it’s been feeling weird when he _does_ kiss her or call her his girlfriend.

And that doesn’t make sense.

And Christine is scratching her head over why this is.

Her first thought was to check her self-confidence because she is so worth someone who _does_ get flustered around her and likes kissing her and maybe wants to go further someday, and she shouldn’t settle for anything less.

But, as she considered this, she found that wasn’t the problem. If anything, she’s only grown more confident since they’ve started dating, and she doesn’t think it has anything to do with Jeremy.

Then, what’s the reason this isn’t working?

Christine loves him, she _knows_ she loves him. He’s wonderful. Gosh, she loves him like a brother.

Wait—

Christine has to slap a hand over her mouth to prevent gasping in chemistry, too.

That’s _it._

God, Christine loves Jeremy like a brother. Like a friend. Like a _best _friend.

Not like a boyfriend.

And, oh, that all really does make sense, when she thinks about it.

Christine likes the way he kisses, but it’s not like the fireworks it was when they first started dating. She likes hugging him and resting her head on his shoulder, and while it was cute how he used to get flustered about it, she doesn’t mind that he doesn’t anymore.

In fact, it’s good that he doesn’t, because that means he’s comfortable around her—which should happen in a romantic relationship eventually, anyways—but this comfort is more friend-like.

And they talk like best friends, too. Jeremy doesn’t stutter as much around her anymore, like he used to, and calls her ‘dude’ and ‘bro’. She does it to him, too. And it’s fantastic. Christine wouldn’t change a thing. Christine loves how they talk.

She loves how they talk about everything, too. How he tells her everything.

And that’s something else that hasn’t been happening lately.

They tell each other everything. But ever since Michael left school, Jeremy’s stopped. And Jeremy has been trying so hard to pretend like he hasn’t, but Jeremy sucks at hiding his emotions, and Christine knows him too well, anyways.

And the more Christine stares at these notes she’s scribbled down, the more Christine starts realizing something a little funny. She twists a strand of hair around and around her fingers as she thinks.

Their dynamic as a couple has been changing slowly. The fierce fireworks lasted maybe a month or so. And then, as they grew comfortable, the fireworks slowed down.

And then, at the end of summer, they stopped altogether. Right around when Michael left.

And Jeremy’s been really weird with talking about Michael since then, too.

And Christine thinks it must be awful to have your best friend of thirteen years suddenly leave. Michael and Christine have only been friends a few months, and Michael's leaving left her so heartbroken that the emptiness he left just feels like a part of her at this point. But, well, she talked and talked about it, to anyone who would listen, but the person who she thought would listen the most doesn’t want anything to do with it.

So she’s worried that Jeremy’s not doing so well with it, but he won’t _talk_ to her about it, not even to confirm his well being.

And she can’t figure out why, exactly, he hasn’t told her anything. It’s driving her insane.

It’s just, it has to be affecting him, right? That’s some emotional trauma if Christine’s ever seen it. That has to be why Jeremy’s stopped being so affectionate with her, because why else would Jeremy have stopped being so affectionate with her?

Why else . .

Christine blinks at her notes and the world around her disappears.

August. That’s when Michael left.

August is when Jeremy stopped kissing her.

August is when they stopped acting like a couple.

And since August, Jeremy’s avoided talking about Michael.

Which is weird, right? Christine knows how Jeremy loves Michael like a brother.

But as Christine stares at these strokes of ink in her notebook, she realizes the answer to all of her questions is right here on paper. Her heart drops.

Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe she didn’t know how Jeremy really loved Michael, after all.

The shrill bell snaps Christine out of it, but she’s still in a daze as she packs up, ripping this page out of her notebook and jamming it in her pocket, because now her thoughts are racing.

Because it makes such perfect _sense._

Until now, Jeremy has always talked to her a lot about Michael. Ever since they first started dating, almost a year ago.

At first, Jeremy would just casually chat about him. About what he liked and didn’t like, explaining all the weird things about Michael and how they were actually wonderful things, if you took a second to look. It was to get her to warm up to Michael as a friend.

And Christine did. Christine loved Michael like a brother, too.

But soon these conversations shifted into Jeremy wondering about Michael’s well being, because Michael had stopped telling him everything.

And it sucked, because that was right around the time Michael started talking to Christine more. He started telling Christine everything, and Christine realized that Michael was going to her instead of Jeremy. And she didn’t know what to do, because some of the stuff Michael told her made her so sad, and she so wanted to help him.

But she was Jeremy’s girlfriend first. And Jeremy didn’t like how Michael was going to Christine instead of him. So Jeremy was hurt, and Michael was hurt, and she felt like she had to choose, and she couldn’t choose her boyfriend’s friend over her boyfriend, right?

It was so confusing. And it made her sad, and that wasn’t okay at all.

But now that Michael’s gone, she wishes she helped him more. She wishes she did something more. Maybe then he’d never have left.

But it’s too late for that, Chrstine thinks. So there’s no use wondering ‘what if’.

Christine shakes her head as she makes it to her locker. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she tells herself.

After that whole situation, Jeremy’s Michael-talk got a lot more frantic. One day it’d be his usual ponderings, the next he’d be calling her in a panic, totally freaking that he and Michael would never be the same best friends ever again.

Wow. There’s been a lot of Michael in their relationship, hasn’t there?

And Christine wonders why she’s been so complicit with it, all this time. Now that she’s seeing it, she can’t believe it.

Jeremy and Christine’s relationship should be about Jeremy and Christine, not Jeremy and Michael.

But then, Chrisitine thinks about how she loves Jeremy. Like a best friend.

And she realizes, as she starts walking to her next class, that maybe she’s felt like that for much longer than she thought.

God, maybe she’s _always_ only loved him like a friend.

She was so confused, when they started out. Her relationship with Jake did leave her in a weird place, after all. That Squip didn’t help her mental state out much, either. And she just needed a friend. And Jeremy was there, but Jeremy wanted to be more than friends. So Christine went with it.

So they kissed and snuggled and went on date after date, just like a couple, didn’t they?

But maybe, the whole time, with their kisses and cute pictures and cuddles, they were just doing what they _thought_ they were supposed to do as a couple.

God. Maybe they still are. Even though, Christine thinks, it’s been a long time since they’ve really been a couple.

And Christine never minded, because all this time, she’s loved Jeremy. Just maybe not how she thought.

Plus, he’s a really great friend.

Christine doesn’t want to lose that.

But this relationship. It can’t last, the way it’s going.

Christine deserves more than what it is, right now.

Jeremy does, too.

God, the way Jeremy talked about Michael, sometimes.

Christine wonders how she never saw it before.

* * *

“But as Christine stares at these strokes of ink in her notebook, she realizes the answer to all of her questions is right here on paper. Her heart drops.

Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe she didn’t know how Jeremy really loved Michael, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by Al! (@pomegrantaire)!! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of all this new free time I started making character mood boards for this fic! I'll be posting one with every new chapter until I run out of characters! Links will be in the notes at the end :)

“Where the fuck are the people?” Ree complains from the kitchen, cleaning an already-clean cutting board.

“This is so boring.” Slava says, inhaling mouthfuls of pasta salad by the dishwasher.

Michael nods from his position leaning against the coffee bar, on the lookout for new customers.

But, unlike his coworkers, he’s not complaining about this lack of customers. He’s exhausted, and it doesn’t make sense, because for the first time in weeks, Michael actually got enough sleep last night. He got home at a decent hour, then he crashed early and crashed hard.

He supposes his body must be so used to being exhausted that resting it fucked up whatever bootleg system it had going on. But he needs to not be tired right now, because it’s just making this shift go by even slower.

Michael turns around and takes a portafilter. He needs to practice his latte art, anyways.

Michael fills the basket with fresh espresso, listening to the buzz of the grinder, and tamps it to perfection. The voices of Ree and Slava behind him begin to disappear.

He twists the portafilter back into the machine, and pulls the shots straight into his favorite blue mug. He times them, counting out how long it takes them to pull. It comes out to a perfect twenty three seconds, and the crema is solid, too.

Then, before the crema dissipates, Michael grabs milk and a small, clean pitcher from the fridge. He fills the pitcher up to the bottom of the spout, then tilts the steaming wand to a good angle and steams away, watching the microfoam disappear back into itself.

And this is when Michael’s brain fully peaces out on the life around him. He’s no longer thinking of the counter, and Ree and Slava have long left his focus. He completely hones in on making sure his milk is perfect.

He listens to the growl of the steaming become lower as he lifts his hand on and off the hot pitcher to check the temperature, and the second the pitch of the growl reaches a certain point, Michael flips the switch and brings the pitcher down on the counter, hard. He knocks out the big bubbles and swirls it around. Then, he throws a towel around the tip of the wand and taps the switch to clean it with a burst of steam—And he’s all set for latte art.

Michael’s been working on his latte art more and more, lately.

He loves his latte art, because between making sure the milk and crema is perfect for it and pouring his design, he’s able to completely block out everything else. He’s completely away from the customers, from coworkers, from life.

From his student loans and his moms sending him e-mail after e-mail of job applications, from this pressure to find a _real_ career in the field of that computer science degree he got. From Damien and doubt and all of these other thoughts that have been digging at him lately.

For a short minute, it’s just him and his coffee, and it’s everything he ever wanted.

And in this short minute, he can do hearts and tulips, no problem. Ferns are easy, too, and swans are definitely getting there. Lately, he’s been working on his own little designs, finding new ways to manipulate his pour to make whatever art he wants.

Michael thinks of this cool snail art he saw on the barista subreddit the other day. It was basically a tulip and fern with a little more manipulation for it’s head and eyes, and then you’ve got a snail.

It was fun. He thinks he’ll attempt that.

So Michael hones in on making half of the tulip, then makes the fern beneath it. And now comes the moment of truth. Michael bites his tongue and concentrates, trying to pour it just so.

And as Michael makes the last pour for the snail, he lets his focus slip a little as he hears someone say something, somewhere to his right.

“Th-that’s really cool.”

And something here isn’t quite right, but Michael is still mostly in the zone, and he _does_ like compliments on his latte art, so without looking up as he adds little swirls before the cup reaches full, he says “Thanks, man.”

And now his latte is done, and it actually looks pretty good, he thinks. And he mentally clocks back into his surroundings as he adds some finishing touches with the tip of the thermometer. And in doing so, he notices alarms are going off in his brain again, because of that voice.

Because it’s that same voice from two days ago.

Michael feels his heart fall hard as he looks up at the counter, and all that life he was just so blissfully able to focus away is standing right at the counter, again, in the form of Jeremy Heere.

“Oh,” Michael says before he can stop himself.

“Hey,” Jeremy says. Michael drops the thermometer back on the counter and wraps his blue mug in his hands, grounding himself in the warmth pouring off it, and walks up to the counter before Slava notices someone’s here.

This someone, wearing a Hello Kitty T-shirt and actually kind of fashionable jeans, which are completely cancelled out by that awful cardigan, who has his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking for the world like he’s about to die. Yeah.

This customer is all his.

“Hey,” Michael says, and he tightens his grip on his mug, because the more he takes in Jeremy, his messy new haircut and glasses sliding down his nose, the more he feels his heart return to its place.

And as Jeremy stands there looking so different yet so, so much like that Jeremy he used to know, that heart begins to swell. And holding that in really hurts, but he swears if he puts his mug down, all that feeling building up there will come crashing out, and he might do something stupid like hug him, which he knows will be awful for both of them.

This is already pretty awful for both of them, Michael thinks.

Because he’s standing here taking Jeremy in, and he can feel Jeremy doing the same, and no one is saying anything, and that’s all that’s happening.

Holy shit, what should he even say right now? And Michael can’t think—

But then Jeremy’s eyes trail down, to that mug in Michael’s hands.

“That’s so cool,” Jeremy says again. And Michael feels his brain start running ahead of his sense, because it _is_ cool, and someone noticed, and so he really can’t help it when he says—

“I saw this design on Reddit the other day, and like, have really been trying to do more complex latte art lately since hearts and tulips are getting old, you know? I need something more to work on. And it’s really slow today, so I thought, well. Snail, right? And, uh-”

And it’s only _then _registers that that someone who noticed isn’t just any someone, and he has to bite his lip to stop talking because, holy fuck, that’s Jeremy Heere he’s rambling to.

And then Jeremy looks up from Michael’s latte, and catches his eye. And it’s everything like that moment from days ago.

That moment, where Michael wanted to jump over the counter and get to know Jeremy again.

Jeremy smiles.

Because Michael just did that thing, just like he always used to, when Jeremy would mention something Michael liked or knew a lot about or just happened to watch a documentary on, where his eyes would light up and he would just go off.

And, just like those times, all those years ago, it didn’t matter the situation. Michael could be on the verge of a panic attack, and Jeremy would try to find those things, to spark Michael’s interest, to get his mind off whatever he’d be freaking about and on something better, and he’d go off on a Michael-ramble.

Or Jeremy would be so, so bored and dying for something to do, so he’d mention a new patch on Michael’s hoodie. That always got a Michael-ramble.

Or it would be a time where Jeremy just needed someone to talk to. About anything. Just any distraction from these voices screaming in his head. So he’d spark a Michael-ramble and let that familiar voice wash over him.

Jeremy missed those Michael-rambles.

And this is one of those situations. Except now it’s five years later.

And, wow. Michael still does it.

Jeremy always wondered.

And then Michael’s bright smile slips a little, as he’s looking at Jeremy, as if he just realized who the hell he was talking to, and he looks a little panicked, like maybe he shouldn’t have said any of those wonderful things, but Jeremy can’t stop smiling.

“You should, uh, take a picture of it,” Jeremy offers. Trying to find something. Some topic, to get this going again.

And, God, no, Jeremy can’t think about that.

He’d love to get this going again. This friendship they used to have.

He’s dreamed of getting it again, and right now, it feels like maybe it could possibly happen, but no, he _cannot _let his mind go there. The disappointment will be too much when it doesn’t. That’s what he has to remember.

But then Michael’s eyes flash, and he sets the mug down on the counter between them. “The lighting here is best,” he says.

And Jeremy looks up from the mug, at Michael, who’s frantically working on opening the camera on his phone, which he got out so quickly Jeremy didn’t even see it. And Jeremy looks, because he can’t believe he’s hearing that voice again, in person.

He can’t believe Michael is _here_, in person.

And, oh God, he’s actually _talking_ to Jeremy.

Michael gets his camera open, then he sets his phone down and gently places his hands on the mug to adjust its position. Jeremy watches the careful motion, his breath completely caught up in his chest.

“This is like, the opposite of yesterday,” Michael says.

And now Jeremy gets to respond, because this is an actual conversation, with _Michael,_ and that’s just so amazing.

And there’s something nagging in his ear, that this shouldn’t be happening. That this conversation is too normal, too casual, and so wrong.

But, right now, it feels like a dream.

“Wh-what was yesterday?’’ Jeremy stutters.

And Jeremy makes a mental note to check himself before he speaks, to focus on not stuttering. And it’s not at all because he got a shock down his spine for doing it. It’s definitely more because he doesn’t want to freak Michael out any more than he probably already is.

But Michael just holds his phone over his mug and starts taking pictures, either not noticing or not caring about that stutter. And Jeremy shouldn’t be surprised, because Michael never cared about it, anyways. Not then, and not now.

Jeremy looks at Michael’s face, and his tongue is poking between his teeth as he adjusts the angle.

God, just like he used to.

And this is why Jeremy’s hands are in his pockets, because if they weren’t, he’d definitely have one on his chest right now in any attempt to stop this frantic beating of his heart, and that is definitely not cool.

“Yesterday, I did Sonic the Hedgehog art,” Michael says, checking the pictures.

“Uhhh,” Jeremy says, because he totally lost track of the conversation.

Michael looks up. “So like, yesterday was all fast themed with Sonic, and today I did the opposite. A snail. So. Slow.” And Michael has this really stupid smile on his face, like he’s the proudest ever that he made a connection there.

And yeah, thank God Jeremy is keeping his hands in his pockets.

“Do you have, uh,” Jeremy’s brain is going faster than his mouth, again. “Do you have pictures?”

“Duh, dude,” Michael says, rolling his eyes a little.

Jeremy rubs his thumb over that Zelda lanyard, in his pocket, while his hands are in there.

Then, Michael does the most amazing thing where he walks around the counter and stands right next to Jeremy, shoving his phone in Jeremy’s face, and oh, God.

Michael is so close. He’s_ right there_. And it takes everything in Jeremy not to lean into him, or touch his shoulder, or hug him, or something, because Michael doesn’t like touch. And he didn’t like it back when they were teenagers, when they were friends, so Jeremy doubts it’ll be acceptable for him to touch Michael today at all.

Because, today, they’re not friends.

And Michael is talking to him, showing him pictures, telling him about how he kind of messed it up, even though Jeremy thinks it looks damn perfect. But Jeremy is barely hearing what he is saying, because he really wants to close this gap between them. To take his hands out of his pockets and touch him. And Jeremy wants to get Michael to _let_ him touch him.

But Jeremy can’t ask. Michael didn’t like it when Jeremy asked to touch him, back then. Asking always made Michael feel weird.

So, instead of asking, they always did that handshake, to check up on each other. If Michael didn’t want to be touched that day, he just wouldn’t do the handshake, and Jeremy would know it was a no-touch day. And it’d be fine.

But if he was okay, that day, he would return it.

Jeremy can’t help but wonder if he’d return it today.

And Jeremy realizes that Michael is saying something, but Jeremy isn’t paying attention at all. But before he gets the chance to fix it, Michael stops speaking. Then Michael is blinking at Jeremy. And that bright, bright smile that Jeremy missed so much is dropping.

“S-sorry. What?” Jeremy says. And Jeremy knows he’s reaching, but he doesn’t want this dream to end.

“Jere, um.” And whatever spark they had going from Michael’s latte has gone out. Now Michael is just looking at him, and not smiling, and not saying anything. And now his eyes are dropping, and he isn’t looking at Jeremy. But Jeremy can’t stop looking at him. “I think we need to talk.”

Michael looks back up, right in Jeremy’s eyes, and Jeremy can see everything right there.

And just like that, the dream ends.

Because, after all, this is real.

* * *

""Hey . . ."

“Hey,” Michael says, and he tightens his grip on his mug, because the more he takes in Jeremy, his messy new haircut and glasses sliding down his nose, the more he feels his heart return to its place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by Al (@pomegrantaire)! <3
> 
> And my first Lately Moodboard goes to Michael! Link here: https://queer-coffee.tumblr.com/image/614499473414094848


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning, no art on this chapter yet! Our amazing artist is rather busy right now, but we decided to keep posting the chapters! Art to be posted later, but there still is a mood board link :)

Sophomore year of college, Damien and Michael went to a gaming convention to try out an Occulus Rift. It was this gaming console in the form of a mask, like a pair of ski goggles, and when Michael put it on, he was transported. The controller was in his hand, but his eyes were in the game, seeing through the perspective of his character. When Michael moved his head, so did his character. It was so weird, and so cool. The video game was so vivid, yet nothing that was happening to Michael in the game was actually happening to Michael in real life. And however cool, it was a bit of a mindfuck.

Michael’s reminded of that experience now. He feels immensely aware of everything happening around him. It’s like he can hear every single conversation, every forkscrape, the music from the speakers, and the beating of his own heart, all separately, and all at once. 

But it’s also like he can’t feel any of these things at all. And it’s a mindfuck, and it’s just like he’s watching this all through the Occulus Rift.

He can hear Slava talking to him and Jeremy, who is actually here in front of him, listening to Michael talk and talk and _talk_ about his stupid latte art. But he barely registers that Slava’s talking _to_ him. It’s like he’s just watching this all happen to a different Michael, another character.

“Wait, Slav,” Michael wraps his hands back around his mug on the counter. He picks it up, slowly, then says, “Go back.”

Michael’s gaze rises up from his snail and lands on Jeremy, whose face is very red, now.

“I _said_,” Slava tuts, “like, this dude came in looking for you the other day, when you called off. And now you’re both here! Yeah!”

Jeremy’s face goes redder, and Michael thinks that Slava really doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Oh,” Michael says. He blinks down at the register. “Uhhh.”

Michael enters his ID on the screen and starts hitting buttons. Jeremy starts talking.

“Uh, like you're on the—You’re on the clock, right? So if your busy, or like, can’t talk right now, or, uh-”

Michael hits one final button. “I’m not on the clock.”

Jeremy stops talking.

“Slav, can you handle bar for a bit?”

“Yeah, bro,” Slava says, and Michael knows what he’s about to do a split second before he does it, and braces himself as best he can.

Slava claps him on the back, hard, and that touch knocks Michael out of the video game and back into reality.

And Michael just bites the inside of his lip and takes it, holding onto his mug tighter. It’s just Slava, it’s _fine_. And Slava doesn’t know, and Michael is not going to freak, even though all of these things happening right now are so, so much.

Then, his hand falls, and Michael can almost breathe again. “Yeah, I gotchu, man!” Slava says.

Michael blinks until his eyes can focus again, and he glances up. Jeremy is looking at him.

And Michael drops the gaze, because Jeremy’s mouth has fallen open, ever so slightly, and his eyebrows are tilted up, and his eyes are so careful. It’s a look Michael’s seen before, whenever Jeremy would touch or grab him without thinking first, and Michael would react without meaning to.

Michael always hated that look.

And he tries to suppress this heatwave of embarrassment that’s creeping up his face because Jeremy hasn’t seen him in five years and he still can’t handle even the simplest surprise touch. And it’s ridiculous, and he should’ve grown out of it, and now Jeremy knows.

“Let’s um,” and Michael says, trying to get Jeremy’s face to do something that’s not that, “do you want a drink, or something?”

“Oh, no, uh, you don’t have to—”

“Mmm,” Michael interrupts, and he makes himself smile, because he has to do something, because this is awful, “too late, I’m going to make you something.”

Jeremy blinks at him and doesn’t say anything. Michael sets his mug down on the counter.

Michael knows Jeremy doesn’t like coffee, and he doesn’t really like tea, and he doesn’t really know why but Michael needs to actually _make_ something for Jeremy. He mentally scrolls through the arsenal of drinks he knows how to make.

Although Jeremy doesn’t like tea, Michael thinks a chai latte might change his mind.

Michael picks out a big, orange mug and throws pumps of vanilla in it, because Jeremy likes sweet stuff. Then he picks out a ceramic tea strainer and measures out the chai leaves into it. Michael cleans the milk pitcher he used and steams more milk, giving this batch every bit of care and concentration he gave to his, because this has to taste good.

Unfortunately, chai lattes are impossible to do art in, so Michael just pours the milk over the leaves slowly, then places a small plate on top of it to let the whole thing steep, and calls it cute enough.

And once it’s done, and Michael’s back in the world of the kitchen, he glances over to see Slava waving his arms around wildly. Jeremy is nodding to whatever nonsense Slava must be saying, this weird blend of awe and disgust on his face.

Michael feels eyes on his back. He glances over his shoulder. Ree is looking at him. 

Michael sets the chai latte down in front of the espresso machine, and walks back over to Ree.

“You look fuckin’ whack,” she says.

“Look who’s talking.”

“I know I’m fuckin’ whack, bro,” then Ree leans forward on her cutting board, “But what’s up?”

Michael shakes his head. “Uh,” he points his thumb back over his shoulder, “Jeremy.”

“He’s _back_?” Ree yells. So loud. Michael’s heart rate spikes.

“Jesus Christ, Ree, shut _up_.”

Ree waves a hand. 

“Mmm hm,” she says, “I’ll be here ready to whoop ass if you need it.”

“Thanks, bitch,” Michael says. Ree’s eyes warm over.

“No, but seriously,” she doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t have to, “I’m here.”

Michael smiles back all the same. “Yeah.” 

“I gotta at least see this guy, though, I mean come _on_,” and only _then_ she smiles, but it’s in her laugh, and that warmth in her eyes disappears as quickly as it came. She starts moving around her cutting board.

“No!” Michael shouts. Loudly. And oops. Ree cracks up.

“Jesus Christ, Ree, shut up!” She mimics, in this ridiculously not-Michael voice. Michael cracks, too, and starts laughing, feeling his unease drain away as Ree returns to chopping her onions.

Michael spins on his heel and walks away. Ree’s laughter follows him out.

Michael turns the corner. Slava is still talking.

“—Then Ari, this chick who works here, frickin’ Olympic-jumped on it and the bag broke anyways! _Cake everywhere_.”

“_Slav,_” Michael warns, picking up the mugs. “Just. No.”

“You weren’t saying that when _you_ stomped on my cake bag.”

Jeremy laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Michael almost drops the mugs.

“Woah, watch it, dude,” Slava says. “I’ll get you if we get busy.” 

“Thanks,” Michael says walking around the counter. And then suddenly, he’s standing next to Jeremy, who’s smile from earlier is starting to waver a little.

Oh, God.

“Let’s um,” Michael hands Jeremy the orange mug, and when Jeremy takes it, his fingers brush against Michael’s and Michael almost drops the mugs all over again. “Uh. Let’s go to the other room so my lovely coworkers don’t harass us.”

“No fun,” Slava boos.

Michael tries not to look at Jeremy as they find a table. He puts his mug down gently, then realizes that Jeremy will probably want to sit there since Jeremy doesn’t like having his back to the front door. So Michael slides his mug over to the other side of the table and sits. The chair scrapes loudly as he pulls it out.

Jeremy sits, too, and he can’t stop looking at Michael.

Because, wow, Michael just remembered one of Jeremy’s stupid little things. One of those little things that could be so easily ignored or overlooked, things that other people would always overlook, but never Michael. Michael always paid such close attention.

God, Jeremy hates how embarrassed he feels about it. He hopes Michael doesn’t notice the red that’s definitely taking over his cheeks.

“You might want to let that steep for a few minutes,” Michael says. Jeremy looks up from the table. Michael is pointing at Jeremy’s mug.

“Uh. What is it?”

“It’s a chai latte. No coffee in it. I, um,” Michael looks down at his mug as he picks it up. “I thought you might like it.”

Steep. Michael said steep. “Is it, like, a tea?”

“Yeah, and I know you don’t like tea, but chai is really good. I think you might like chai. It tastes kind of like pumpkin,” Michael explains before taking a sip of his latte. Jeremy watches the snail disfigure. “Same spices and stuff.”

“I, uh, do like pumpkin,” Jeremy says.

“I know,” Michael smiles.

Oh, man.

Michael looks back down at his coffee. And Jeremy doesn’t know what to say.

But Jeremy has so much to say. Jeremy is dying to find out every little thing about Michael. Like what happened all those years ago, and where he went to end up right back here, sitting across from him, rubbing his thumb in circles on the side of his mug, not looking at Jeremy.

And Jeremy thinks about Michael leaving for that last time, all those years ago, and he thinks about Michael gripping his steering wheel at three in the morning days before that. Everything Michael was hiding behind those eyes. All Jeremy missed.

And then, Michael’s gaze flicks up and meets Jeremy’s, and Jeremy’s breath stops. Holy shit.

It’s still there, in his eyes. So much.

And Jeremy doesn’t miss it this time.

And Jeremy can’t miss it this time, Jeremy can’t fuck it up this time.

Jeremy needs to know.

Michael wants to know, too.

And Michael _hates_ that. He’s worked for five years to not want to know. Five long, hard, exhausting, roller-coaster, crazy years. And he finally got to where he wanted to be. 

All to be brought down by a sharp pin on a forgotten backpack.

And Michael feels his heart sink as this awfully light conversation fades. He looks back up at Jeremy. Jeremy is giving him such a delicate, careful, terrible look.

“So,” Michael says. His throat feels strung tight, and the words spill out in this oddly light way. “How’ve you been?”

This isn’t just a pleasantry. Jeremy frowns. 

“Okay,” Jeremy says. Michael watches him rub his hand on his jeans, and his heart ripples.

He always wondered if he’d ever get to see Jeremy do that again.

Michael shakes his head. Five years.

Jeremy looks back up at Michael. “Great, really. Really good,” Jeremy shakes his head and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “How’re you?”

Michael sits back in his chair. Jeremy’s great. Jeremy’s really good.

“I’m, um,” Michael wants to say good, too.

The thing is, Michael thought he was good. Five years of working to be good, and he thought he finally got there.

A pin on a fucking backpack.

“I don’t know. I thought I—” Michael starts saying, but stops himself.

Five years, he’s worked.

Why is he telling Jeremy this?

He doesn’t owe Jeremy anything. 

His eyes flick up again, into Jeremy’s.

It shouldn't be this difficult still to lie to those eyes.

Oh, God.

“You thought you?” Jeremy prompts, leaning forward again.

Michael leans forward, too. Ever so slightly. He really could just fall into those eyes.

Jeremy’s mug clinks when his elbows land on the table, Michael’s eyes dart to it. It’s been sitting a while now.

And, yeah. He doesn’t owe Jeremy a thing.

“That should be done steeping.”

Jeremy blinks at Michael, and looks down at his mug. 

And Michael watches Jeremy take the strainer out and place it on that plate. Jeremy takes a silent sip. Jeremy says the latte is good.

Michael just nods and nods, remembering a time when they talked so easily. When they could speak without speaking.

Michael closes his eyes. It’s rushing back to him.

It’s been five years. What happened?

Michael wants to know so badly. Michael doesn’t want to know at all.

And he wonders if it’ll ever be so easy to talk to Jeremy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no art (yet!!) but here is the link for the next mood board!
> 
> Jeremy Heere: https://queer-coffee.tumblr.com/image/615790416886923264


	15. Chapter 15

On the bright side, the chai latte is delicious.

On the not-so-bright side, Jeremy has no idea what to say.

_How’ve you been?_ Those words are bouncing around in Jeremy’s head.

He has a job he loves and he’s slowly, but surely, getting his degree. He’s living with Christine and watching her succeed has been incredible. There’s this thing he’s got going on with Lisa, and he’s getting some major vibes that she is aware of this thing between them, too, and that should be wonderful, but for some reason thinking about that when Michael is sitting across from him doesn’t feel so wonderful.

And he thinks maybe that’s because one of the last times he saw Michael was that time Michael put himself in a hugely vulnerable position to try and save their friendship of thirteen years, and instead of listening, Jeremy took advantage of him in that position and kissed him.

Or something like that.

And by now, Jeremy should seriously be over that like the well-adjusted adult he is.

He should be happy, with all the great things he has going for him right now.

He thought he was happy.

But here he is, about to fucking cry in front of Michael Mell because Michael is _here._ He’s here, breathing and talking and shattering that illusion Jeremy worked so hard to create. 

And with that, Jeremy can’t believe that he actually _believed_ that lie he told himself. That he didn’t need Michael, he didn’t miss Michael. Sure, he thought of him everyday, he looked at those old pictures, he watched those old videos. But he didn’t need Michael. Not at all. He was fine without Michael. He was happy without Michael.

He told himself that everyday for five years.

He told Michael that.

He feels the Zelda lanyard in his pocket, and he feels everything inside of him collapse.

God, he’s so tired.

How did he not notice before? It’s exhausting to lie.

Jeremy doesn’t want to lie anymore. Maybe then he won’t be so tired.

Maybe then, Michael will trust him again.

“Michael,” Jeremy says, looking up into his eyes.

He watches those eyes refocus before they land on him. “Yeah?”

“I—”

And Jeremy pauses.

Because something isn’t right here.

All those times he totally didn’t daydream about meeting Michael again, he thought he would feel uninterrupted joy and hope and wholeness and happiness.

And well, he does feel most of those things. And that’s amazing.

But, something is wrong.

He doesn’t just feel those emotions fighting inside of him.

No, there’s this other thing fighting down there, too. And Jeremy didn’t expect that.

But it’s there, simmering and hot and undeniable in his stomach.

Anger.

That can’t be right.

“Yeah?” Michael says, leaning into the table a little.

Because Michael just left him.

“I . . .”

And Michael said they’d hang out again, that last time.

“Michael!”

Jeremy’s eyes snap up, startled, to see this tall guy with this ridiculous afro who could be very handsome, if he wasn't dressed like such a nerd, standing in the archway.

And this guy is smiling ear to ear.

Michael stiffens in his seat a little, then turns around in his chair.

“Oh. Hi,” he says, pulling a little smile. It's the fakest smile Jeremy's ever seen.

It kind of pisses Jeremy off.

“Oh, hi?” This nerdy guy says walking over. He opens his mouth to say something else, but then seems to register Jeremy's presence.

Michael looks back and forth between them.

“Um, hi,” Jeremy says, not knowing what the hell is happening.

“Oh, um. This is Jeremy!” Michael announces waving a hand at Jeremy. “Jere, this is Damien.”

And Jeremy almost falls out of his chair because Michael just called him _Jere_ and it was _just _ like he used to, and that awful anger completely loses the battle of emotions for two seconds, and he's so distracted and confused by it that he doesn't realize this Damien guy is losing his shit.

“—and you're him! Michael's told me all about you, man!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jeremy waves his hands around. “This is—” Jeremy waves his hands around in a slightly different way to express the fact that this is too much, and he doesn't know what to say or do or think or _feel_, and he can’t quite find the words.

Jeremy looks at Michael, and Michael looks back. His fake smile falls.

“What?” Is what Jeremy lands on.

And then this Damien guy pulls a chair out from an empty table and sits down, scooting in a bit too close for comfort, and Jeremy can barely handle sitting next to Michael, let alone this guy who seems to be Michael's friend.

Michael friend. Michael's new friend, because Michael left and made new friends who are not Jeremy. New _best_ friends who replaced Jeremy because Jeremy was the world's worst best friend.

God, what the hell is Jeremy doing here?

Michael doesn't need Jeremy.

“Michael's told me all about you! You two used to go to school together, right?”

And on top of this, Jeremy isn’t feeling how he’s supposed to feel, how he thought he’d feel, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Uh.”

“Yeah, um,” Michael says. He’s smiling again, but not really. “Yeah, we did. We were—”

And then the world stops spinning.

Jeremy’s eyes snap to Michael. Michael looks at Jeremy.

And behind that not-smile, those eyes still hold so much.

_Best friends,_ Jeremy wants Michael to say. _We were best friends._

Indecision wavers in Michael’s eyes.

“Damien, do you want a coffee?” Michael pops up from his chair, and the world starts spinning again, not waiting for Jeremy to catch up.

And that feeling Jeremy doesn’t want to feel starts winning again.

Michael just _left_ him.

“Michael.”

“Hey,” Damien says. “Hey, it’s cool, Michael.”

Jeremy looks at Damien. He looks concerned.

Jeremy looks at Michael, who raises his eyebrows.

And he realizes that they’re having a silent conversation, right in front of him.

Jeremy used to do that with Michael. All the time.

“I’m—” Michael vocalizes, shaking his head. “It’s fine.”

And then he leaves. Jeremy watches his back turn the corner.

And then Damien starts talking, but Jeremy doesn’t want to listen.

“Hey. So, Jeremy! I’ve heard so much about you.”

Jeremy looks at him.

“Yeah,” he says. He shakes his head. “What?”

Then Damien blinks and scoots into the table further, which Jeremy did not think was possible. Jeremy looks down at his chai.

“Don’t worry. I know you two lost touch a while back, so I doubt you’ve heard about me.”

“Yeah.”

Damien is quiet for a moment. Jeremy’s so overwhelmed that he can’t even think.

“That must be weird for you," he says, slowly. Carefully.

Jeremy stiffens in his seat, his heart racing.

Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

Jeremy open his mouth to say that, and then he looks right into Damien’s eyes, and fuck.

Those eyes.

Damien means it. One hundred percent. It’s written all over his face. In the way he’s not smiling, not making fun, in how his eyebrows are tilted up, and the openness in his stupid eyes. And Jeremy feels his anger vanish so quickly he can’t believe it, leaving this emptiness where it just was.

This guy. He can’t be angry at this guy, Damien.

This guy must know everything about Michael. He must have all the answers.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, deflating. It just slips out, he doesn’t even mean to agree, but he does mean it when he confirms. “Yeah, it’s weird.”

“Huh,” Damien says. And that’s all he says. Silence stretches between them for a few long moments.

Huh.

"Is that a chai?" Damien asks with a start, leaning over a bit to peer into Jeremy's cup. Jeremy can't help but scoot back a little. "Michael makes the best chais. He makes the best everything!" 

That stings. Jeremy can't figure out why, and he doesn't trust himself to speak, so he doesn't, and instead let's that sting wash over him.

This guy, Damien, who knows Michael makes the best everything.

And then Jeremy wonders how much Damien knows about _him_. What Michael told him about his former best friend who he won’t even call his former best friend.

Oh, God.

"I know, um," Damien starts, hesitantly, probably from Jeremy's lack of response. Then, he stops himself, like he's deciding if he should continue. Jeremy freezes in his seat, suddenly wishing Damien would just stay quiet. "I know you two used to be, like, best friends, yeah?"

Jeremy’s heart flies up to his throat as his eyes fly to Damien’s.

“But Michael didn’t say that,” is what Jeremy says, finally, regretting that he ever wished for Damien to stay quiet. “Just now.” And he hates how it sounds like a whine.

“No,” Damien says. “He’s . . .” Then, Damien just kind of tilts his head back and forth. “Well, you know.”

And no, Jeremy does _not_ know. And that anger lights like a match inside of him again, filling that hollow so violently, because this guy with his stupid eyes and nice face thinks he knows everything about Michael, when it’s _Jeremy_ who knows everything about Michael.

But no, that’s wrong. And Jeremy wants to cry out of nowhere again because it hits him, like a bus, right in his chest, that he doesn’t know anything about Michael anymore, that this guy does, and it’s Jeremy who should feel foolish for thinking he knows everything about Michael, not Damien.

No, he’s not angry at Damien.

And, God, Jeremy needs to know everything about Michael again. He needs it more than he needs air.

“Wh-what-what else—” _Shit._

Jeremy cuts himself off, looking back down at his chai. God, he’s stuttering again. In front of Michael’s-new-best-friend-Damien, and somehow that’s the worst thing ever, because it’s just another thing of many about Jeremy that’s not perfect, and it’s hard to be less than perfect when sitting next to someone who is.

Perfect for Michael.

Jeremy can’t talk. He has to breathe. And his eyes sting.

He looks up. Michael is standing in the archway.

And all of these emotions are fighting inside of Jeremy, and his eyes are stinging, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to cry or yell or laugh or die, and it’s all so much. And he can’t take it, Michael Mell standing there in front of him like some stranger.

Jeremy hears his chair screech behind him.

“I-I have to—”

And before he knows it he’s pushing past Michael in the archway, who is saying something Jeremy can’t hear, and his hand is on the doorknob, and then hot, dying summer air is on his face and he’s leaving, getting as far away as he can, and the further away he gets, the more he can breathe, and instead of wanting to laugh or cry or scream, Jeremy just wants to go back in that stupid coffee shop.

“Wait!” Someone yells behind him. “_Wait_, Jere,” Jeremy turns around.

Michael stops in front of him, catching his breath. A Vagabond rewards card is clutched in his hand.

Michael locks eyes with Jeremy. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then he looks down.

“Here,” he says, finally, shoving the rewards card towards him.

Jeremy looks at it, confused.

“Wh-what—” Jeremy stops himself. God.

“Just take it,” Michael insists. Jeremy does.

Michael’s hand hovers, open in the space between them.

Jeremy looks at him.

And he sees that everything in his eyes, of course, all that he didn’t five years ago. But he also sees so much more he doesn’t know. So much that he’d like to get to know.

Michael smiles at him. He looks terrified doing it, and it’s only a little half smile on the left side of his mouth, but of all the things he doesn’t know anymore, at least Jeremy knows Michael’s smiles. And he knows this one is all real.

Then, there’s another moment of indecision there in Michael. Jeremy can feel it suffocate the air between them.

But in the end, Michael just turns around and walks away. Jeremy stares at him until the door closes behind him.

Jeremy stands there for much too long, wondering where all those emotions fighting inside him went.

He looks down at the rewards card, then flips it over.

A phone number.

And in that empty space where all those fighting emotions just were, Jeremy only feels warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Check back later for chapter art! In the meantime, here's another mood board!
> 
> Damien Reed: https://queer-coffee.tumblr.com/image/616161071953297408


	16. Chapter 16

Jeremy doesn’t call Michael that day. He doesn’t call him the next day, either. Or the next.

Jeremy does put Michael’s number back into his phone, though. Long after Michael walks away, Jeremy takes a picture of the rewards card, then another picture, then he puts it in his wallet.

When he gets home, he takes the card out of his wallet and puts it on the table. After that he tries to do homework, but every other sentence, he stops typing to look at the card on the table. And he knows he should probably move the card or throw it away so it stops distracting him, but Jeremy doesn’t trust that because, so long as he can see the card, he can see that it’s real.

Then, at one in the morning, long after Christine comes home and goes to bed without ever noticing Michael’s phone number sitting on the table, but long before Jeremy ever finishes that assignment, Jeremy picks the card up by the corners and runs his fingers over the blue ink. He can’t get his mind around how that ink came from a pen that Michael held in his fingers, and the shape of the ink, which came from the specific little movements in Michael’s fingers that make up Michael’s handwriting. Jeremy can’t stop looking at it, it’s so incredible.

And then, Jeremy places the card back on the table and takes out his phone. He places that on the table, too, next to the card—exactly parallel with it—and opens up his contacts. Then, with one finger so he doesn’t mess up, he types in the name: _Michael Mell._

And then, Jeremy gets the moment he’s been saving all evening.

One character at a time, Jeremy types Michael’s new number into his phone. He looks at the card, registers a number, then looks at his phone and types it in. Then, he looks at the card, registers the next number, looks at his phone and types it. He repeats that process eight more times, careful to not make a mistake.

Then, Jeremy reads Michael’s number out loud from the card, then out loud from his phone, just to make sure they sound the same.

And then, Jeremy takes the Vagabond Rewards card and puts it back into his wallet, right next to that old, creased picture of Michael from high school.

Jeremy opens his phone again. And there it is, plain as day, but still so hard to believe.

Michael’s number is in his phone.

Jeremy inhales, then exhales, and tells himself he isn’t dreaming. And he isn’t dreaming.

He tells himself that it’s real. And it is real.

And he tells himself that he’s not going to cry over a phone number. He’s not going to cry over a phone number. He’s _not._

But he quickly stops. He said he’d stop lying to himself, after all.

~~~~~~~

So, Jeremy doesn’t call Michael the next day.

He goes into work and reshelves books and chats with Mary. Then, he drives to Eastchester, even though he’s not bringing any books over, and talks to Lisa.

He does that the next day, and the next day, too.

On the fourth day, Lisa asks him why he keeps showing up.

“No reason,” Jeremy says.

“No reason at all?” Lisa smiles.

Jeremy thinks of Michael’s number on his phone screen.

“No.”

Lisa doesn’t smile after that.

On the fifth day of having Michael’s number, but not calling Michael for reasons Jeremy doesn’t have, Lisa asks him out to Vagabond.

“You wanna go out to coffee?” Jeremy clarifies, feeling something in his stomach that’s somewhere between dread and seeing God.

“Yeah Jere. Out,” she repeats. Then her fingers fall on his arm. “I wanna go _out._”

“Go out?” Go out, go out, go out. Those words bounce around in Jeremy’s head, and he finds it hard to breathe.

He can’t breathe, and he feels so full of dread, and so full of nervous excitement, and Jeremy can’t tell if it’s the thought of possibly seeing Michael at Vagabond, the thought of still not having called Michael, the not knowing why he hasn’t called Michael yet, the idea of Michael in general, or the fact that Lisa just asked him out that’s doing it to him.

Wait.

Lisa just asked him out.

“Fuck,” Jeremy takes a step away from Lisa, feeling all the feelings inside of him completely disappear as the shock washes over him. Lisa starts laughing at him, and he starts laughing, too, because it’s hard not to smile when she laughs.

“Maybe we’ll get to that later,” Lisa jokes.

And Jeremy knows it’s just a joke. He _knows_ that, so he doesn’t understand why it’s not funny.

“Heh, yeah,” is what Jeremy says. “And yeah, I’d-I’d love to go out with you.”

He doesn’t understand why that dread starts creeping up on him again, either.

Jeremy has wanted this moment for so long, so long that he should be overwhelmed with joy and relief and happiness and excitement at the idea of a future with Lisa. He should be thinking about what this means for him, getting to go out with Lisa. Being Lisa’s boyfriend, and she maybe being his girlfriend, getting to go out on a date and possibly more with Lisa. God, he’s been crushing on her for so, so long. He should be thinking of Lisa.

He should be thinking of LIsa.

So he doesn’t understand why he can only think of Michael’s number in his phone.

And that’s all he can think about as Lisa loops her arm into his, like she’s done so many times before, only this time it’s different because now it’s for what Jeremy thinks are dating reasons. And those dating reasons should be what's overloading his senses right now, but they're not.

Lisa talks to him, and talks to him some more, and slowly the thoughts of what he should be thinking drift away on the waves of her voice, and he can feel her fingers on his arm.

That’s a big reason why he likes Lisa. She can always take his mind off things by just being there.

He looks down at her as they approach Vagabond, thinking of more of these reasons he likes her.

Lisa always makes him feel better. She always calms him down. Her direct way of talking mixed with her sincerity just make her easy to be around, even though she’s currently raving about some kids who trashed Eastchester’s study room.

As she continues, those gentle waves in her voice become tidal waves, full of ferocity and passion. Jeremy’s always loved how her voice can be so gentle one minute, and so fierce the next. And her waves crash and dance around Jeremy, completely washing over him, so much so that he almost forgets about Michael.

“Teenagers, man,” she says.

“Teenagers,” Jeremy agrees.

“Did you ever do crazy shit as a teenager?” Lisa stops right in front of the door of Vagabond. She looks at him with those warm eyes. That’s another reason he likes her.

“I did one _really_ crazy thing as a teenager, but I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you,” Jeremy says.

“Try me,” Lisa smirks, her eyes glinting as she pushes the door open. “I was a crazy teen.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I read three books a week and never went out. Pretty crazy,” Lisa winks. Jeremy laughs, but it comes out all high pitched, and Jeremy wants to be embarrassed, but then Lisa laughs at his laugh, and he can’t be embarrassed if it makes her smile. Another reason.

“You sound like the ultimate rebel,” Jeremy says, glancing at the counter. There’s one guy ahead of them, and something about him grabs Jeremy’s attention.

“Believe me, I was as nerdy as they came.”

“That’s _nothing_,” Jeremy counters, regaining his focus as thousands of images of the nerdiest stuff he ever did flashes before his eyes. “When I was fifteen—”

And then Jeremy stops, that focus gone as quickly as it came, because he sees that Michael is at the front counter, too. He’s talking to the other guy there.

_Damien,_ Jeremy remembers. Michael’s friend.

He feels Lisa touch his arm again. “When you were fifteen . . . ?”

And Jermey tries to think of more reasons why Lisa is the best, but he can’t because all he can see is Michael and Damien.

“When I was fifteen,” Jeremy swallows. “Michael and I, um. We . . .” Jeremy watches Michael smile. Damien says something, but Jeremy can’t make it out from where he is. “We went out and-and we got every Zelda game, right?” Damien holds up his hand. “Then, um. We found a bunch of cheat codes on Game FAQ . . .” Michael presses his hand into Damien’s.

Lisa rubs her hand up and down Jeremy’s arm.

And then, Michael and Damien intertwine their fingers.

“Michael never liked Game FAQ, usually. He used to say that-that—”

Michael never touched Jeremy like that. They had their handshake. It was Jeremy’s favorite part of the day. Those three moves, when he got to sync up with his best friend over those three little moves.

But that handshake was just three quick touches. Wrist, wrist, ankle.

Michael rubs his thumb in circles, over the back of Damien’s hand.

This is . . .

“He used to say that it was cheating.”

Then Damien leans over the counter, and Michael leans in, too.

Jeremy watches them, not understanding why that picture feels so wrong, right in his stomach.

Lisa drops her hand from his arm, but Jeremy doesn't notice.

* * *

This is . . .

“He used to say that it was cheating.”

Then Damien leans over the counter, and Michael leans in, too. Jeremy watches them, not understanding why that picture feels so wrong, right in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by the amazing Al (@pomegrantaire)!
> 
> Also, a moodboard:
> 
> Lisa Martinez: https://queer-coffee.tumblr.com/image/616657387938529280


	17. Chapter 17

Michael hears the front door open, and he hopes it’s customers leaving because he doesn’t want to stop talking to Damien.

“Why are your hands so cold?” Michael jokes as he presses his hand into Damien’s. He wants to run around this stupid counter and jump on Damien in a hug, but he doesn’t think that’d go super well for him. So instead, he runs his thumb in circles, right into Damien’s hand.

“Poor circulation?” Damien offers, raising an eyebrow.

“Two many video games,” Michael says, leaning into Damien. “You hold your controller wrong.” Their lips meet, and Michael could just melt into this moment.

The sound of the door opening again clues Michael into the fact that he’s still at work. He pulls away from Damein, who makes a protesting noise.

“Come back here and warm me up,” he whines.

“I’m at work, dude,” Michael drops his hand. He steps aside to check the door and smiles when he sees his second favorite regular by the door.

“Hey, Lisa!” He shouts. She’s looking at him oddly, and she doesn’t smile back. 

Michael’s smile wavers. Damien looks at Lisa, too.

She slowly walks to the front counter. Michael feels something off here.

Lisa comes in almost everyday and is one of their best regulars. She always marches right up to the counter, loud, full of smiles and good tips and laughs. She’s one of the only customers Michael doesn’t mind taking the register for.

And in the nearly four years he’s worked here, he’s never seen her like this.

“How’s it goin’?” He asks lightly. She stops next to Damien and looks at him. And Michael’s totally unsure of what to do here. “Are you . . .”

Then, Lisa looks at Michael, then back at Damien, then at the door. She stares at it for one, two, three seconds, before she says, “Fuck.”

Damien exchanges a confused glance with Michael, who shrugs back. The mother sitting at table one shoots Lisa a dirty look. “Sorry,” Lisa says to her, then she turns back to Michael smiling. It doesn’t look quite right, though. “I’m fine, Michael. Hi, Damien.”

“ ‘Sup.” Damien leans on the pastry case. Michael will have to wipe his hand prints off it after he leaves.

“Are you getting your usual?” Michael asks, trying to get this back on track, reaching for a large cup.

“Actually, um,” Lisa shakes her head. “Just a small iced coffee, I think. No room.”

“Oh,” Michael drops his hand, then reaches for a small cold cup, instead. “Sure thing.”

“And, uh,” Lisa looks around. Her eyes land on the fridge. She opens it and pulls out a cherry Coke. “A can of soda, too.”

Michael nods, then steps in the back to get ice. He fills the cup with cold coffee from the pitcher he made that morning, then snaps a lid on and brings it to the front counter.

“—you think that could fuck up circulation?” Damien is asking Lisa, staring at his hands, looking genuinely worried. She’s laughing, now, and her real smile is back on her face. That makes Michael feel a little better.

“Depends, how often do you use one of those weird N64 controllers?” She asks.

“Here, Lisa,” Michael says, handing her the cup. She starts digging in her bag for her metal straw. “Yeah, who designed that crap anyways?”

“Oh shit,” Damien looks up at Michael, then Lisa. “Maybe that is messing up my circulation . . .”

“How much?” Lisa asks, poking her straw into the cup.

Michael opens his mouth, ready to tell her she doesn’t have to pay, with how weird she’s being, although he wouldn’t tell her that. Instead, he tells her the price.

It pains him a little, but well, he can’t go around giving everyone free drinks, especially if he’s trying to upgrade from shift leader to assistant manager.

His eyes briefly catch Damien’s, and he’s reminded how he doesn’t ever charge Damien. But, well. That’s a different story.

“You’re not allowed to tip, though,” Michael insists as she reaches for an extra dollar in her wallet. “It’s just an iced coffee,” and he knows it’s lame, but he can’t help himself when he says, “and besides, your smile is tip enough.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Lisa scoffs.

“Laaaame,” Damien laughs.

“You sticking around?” Michael asks.

“No,” she sighs, sliding the soda can into her bag. “I need to go hold an interrogation.”

And although her voice is joking, her eyes aren’t.

Damien laughs, but Michael finds he can’t bring himself to do it. “Good luck, dude,” is what he says instead.

“Thanks. Bye, you guys,” She waves. Michael watches her leave, the door closing softly behind her. Michael can’t figure out what just happened.

“Well, that was weird,” he says.

But Damien is silent beside him. Michael looks at him. And if this can’t get any odder, Damien’s staring at Michael with this weird look on his face. Searching, Michael thinks. He feels uneasy about it. “What?”

“Just, uhh” Damien shakes his head. His mouth opens, then closes, before he finally says, “Well, um. Have you—”

“Is this guy gonna order something?” Alex brushes past Damien with a trayful of dirty dishes. “Or is he just here to look pretty?”

“Why not both?” Michael offers. Damien laughs.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Alex?” Damien tilts his head. There’s this glint in his eye, and it’s the brightest spot in Michael’s day.

“Pfft, what?” Alex turns around in the doorway. “Did I say that?”

“_Well_—”

“Nope, can’t recall. Order something,” and then he’s gone.

Michael turns back to look at Damien, who’s still looking at where Alex was.

“What were you saying?”

“Can’t recall,” Damien replies, laughing. That glint is gone, though. “Can I order something?” 

Michael makes Damien’s usual drink and doesn’t charge, just like every other day. And even though it bothers him a little, he doesn’t press. What Damien was going to say can’t have been that important, really. He would have said it if it was, Michael thinks. He can trust Damien. 

Michael’s mind wanders as he makes Damien’s coffee, just like it’s been doing every other day. It trails off to thoughts of hazy blue eyes and a phone number scrawled hastily on that old rewards card Damien had, but never needed to use. And he doesn’t let it bother him that Jeremy hasn’t called or texted or _anything_, even though it’s been five days.

After all, he doesn’t need Jeremy and he doesn’t owe him anything. He doesn’t miss him or want to talk to him at all.

He can trust Damien. He doesn’t need Jeremy.

And it’s all fine.

~~~~~~~

Michael sits in his car after his shift that night, trying to find the will to start driving home.

He stares at the ceiling, watching the little fuzzies on the roof sway in the breeze that’s drifting in from his cracked window.

Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy.

For someone who doesn’t need Jeremy, Michael sure thinks about him a lot.

He can’t seem to stop thinking about him.

Jeremy came back to Vagabond. The first time had to have been a coincidence. But Jeremy came back, and Michael has to think Jeremy came to see him.

And he has to stop thinking about that because the thought that Jeremy wants to talk to him only makes him want to talk to Jeremy.

But then they actually did kind of talk. And then Jeremy just ran out, which is not what a person does when they want to talk to you. And that confused Michael.

And then Michael suddenly had this thought that if Jeremy left, he’d never come back, and that terrified Michael for reasons he can’t even begin to explain, so he panicked and chased him down the street to give him his number, which he’s been freaking out about because he doesn’t know why he did that. He’s supposed to be done with Jeremy. He’s supposed to have moved on. People who’ve moved on don’t normally go chasing their former friends down the street to give them their number.

It’s just, Jeremy ran out looking all freaked and Michael just did what his gut was telling him to do. That’s all.

And, well. He thought Jeremy would call him.

Michael exhales, long and loud, then turns the car on. Damien’s mixtape hisses in the player.

Michael backs out, flipping on the headlights. If he leaves after a morning shift, he has to be careful not to hit any other cars in the crowded lot. But at night, he can back out without a problem.

The player clicks back to life as he pulls out of the parking lot, right in the middle of the song he left off on.

Michael hums along. He’s lost count of how many times he’s cycled through this tape. He’s finally starting to get some lyrics down on the new songs.

_”So I was late for class, I locked my bike to yours  
It wasn't hard to find, you painted flowers on it.”_

Jack Johnson. Michael likes Jack Johnson. One of the few more modern artists he can dig.

_“I guess that I was afraid that if you rolled away  
You might not roll back my direction real soon.”_

Michael turns off of this side street onto a different side street, the gravel on the road crunching under his tires. He makes his way to the main road that cuts through town, rubbing some crust out of his eye.

He regrets ever giving Jeremy his number.

_“Well I was crazy about you then and now  
The craziest thing of all is over ten years have gone by.”_

If it had occurred to him that Jeremy might never call, Michael doesn’t think he’d have done it, because now it’s just distracting him. And God, Michael had gone so long without Jeremy thoughts constantly distracting him, and now these stupid Jeremy thoughts are worse than ever, because Jeremy can just call him any minute, and it’s keeping Michael on edge, and it's all Michael's fault.

He wishes Jeremy would call already. He hopes Jeremy never does.

_“And you're still mine, we're locked in time  
Let's rewind.”_

Rewind, Michael thinks. If only he could rewind so he could stop himself from giving Jeremy his number.

If he could rewind to the second day Jeremy came into Vagabond, to never even sitting down with him.

If he could rewind to that first day Jeremy walked into Vagabond, if he could have said no to pulling that double, to ever seeing Jeremy in the first place.

If he could rewind.

Maybe he’d never have left Jeremy at all.

_“Do you remember when we first moved in together?  
The piano took up the living room.”_

The piano took up the living room. Michael likes that lyrics. He can just imagine, it’d be really funny, he thinks. If he and Jeremy ever moved in together. It sounds like the sort of stupid thing they’d do.

Wait.

Michael slams on the brakes. The car screeches to a stop.

_Wait, wait, wait._

Michael feels his heart pounding in his chest, an image of messy purple sharpie flashing across his mind.

Michael scrambles to eject the tape, needing to be sure.

He finally gets his finger on eject, just as a car honk startles him so badly he screams.

“Fuck, fuck,” Michael pulls over, letting the truck behind him accelerate past. He throws the car in park as the tape slides out of the player.

With shaky hands, he takes it, but it’s night so he can’t see anything. He blindly presses around above him to get the overhead lights on, and finally he hits them.

And that picture drawn by Damien weeks ago, so messy and weird that Michael couldn’t make it out then is flooded with warm light, so clear to him now. And he was right with his first guess.

A piano.

Damien drew a piano.

_Do you remember when we first moved in together? The piano took up the living room._

Oh, God.

Michael holds the cassette to his chest, frantically running through the other songs, other lyrics, in his brain, trying to come up with any other lyric with a piano in it.

Nothing. He can’t think of a single one.

He looks back at the purple piano in his hands.

Damien’s always so fun, with the lyrics he chooses to illustrate, the messages he gives Michael, in this clever way. Usually some cutesy love message or a reference to one of their stupid jokes. Fun little things for Michael to figure out. And Michael’s _always_ loved them, ever since Damien started making them years ago.

But it’s never been this, it’s never been a question.

And Michael can practically hear it, in Damien’s deep, gentle voice.

_Do you want to move in with me, Michael?_

Michael drops the cassette in the passenger seat. He gently places his trembling hand on the steering wheel and runs it up and down the side. He stares at it, waiting.

Waiting.

He shakes his head. Michael’s hand opens and closes, gripping the steering wheel. He doesn’t even notice his breath becoming quicker.

And he’s waiting for that thrill, that yes. But it isn’t coming to him.

Why isn’t he thinking ‘yes’? Why isn’t he thrilled?

Why doesn’t he want to do this?

Michael coughs over his breaths, and he realizes that they’re coming so fast he can’t breathe at all now. He can’t breathe, and he can hardly see, and he doesn’t want to move in with Damien, and why doesn’t he want to move in with Damien?

He scrambles, trying to get this suffocating seat belt off of him, his hands searching blindly for the button. It takes him three tries to hit it, but even when the seat belt is off, Michael still can’t breathe, and he can feel his body shutting down. He wants to pull his knees up to his chest, he wants to bury his head there, he wants to close in on himself and pretend like, if he does, nothing can hurt him or make him feel anything ever again. He wants to scream.

No, no, he can’t do that. He can’t shut down. He cannot have a panic attack like this.

Michael throws the door open and almost falls out of the car as it beeps and beeps away behind him. Michael barely hears it as he leans against the back driver’s side door. He can’t close in on himself, because if he does, he’ll never open back up.

God. God, Damien wants Michael to move in with him. That has to be what he’s asking him. It has to be. And Michael doesn’t understand why that thought is so terrifying.

And Michael doesn’t understand, because he thinks he wants to move in with Damien. At least, he should want that. Damien’s the most incredible, kind, understanding person. They’ve been dating for over three years. Michael loves him, Michael thinks he loves him, and so he should want to move in with him. 

But . . . But Michael can only think of what moving in together really means. What Damien’s implying by asking him to move in. Michael can only think of the last time they tried to have one of their Chill Nights—

And he doesn’t want that. He’s not ready for that. Damien _knows_ that Michael’s not ready.

But that was half a year ago.

So Michael should be ready now. It’s been half a year, and nothing terrible has happened between them. They’re still together. Michael should be ready. That’s what happens next in a normal relationship.

Michael feels his hands fall onto his knees. His lungs hurt.

This isn’t a normal relationship, because Michael’s not normal.

But Damien is, and Damien is ready to move forward. Damien’s _been_ ready to move forward, to move faster. And he’s been so patient, waiting for Michael to catch up.

And Michael’s petrified, because he’s not ready to move forward. He can’t move that fast.

And God, what if he never can catch up?

His knees want to give out under him. He can’t breathe, and he can feel tears on his face, falling up into his hairline.

And that’s not right, Michael thinks, they should be falling down his cheeks, except for the fact that he’s bent over himself, and that means he’s closing in, and he can feel the weight of the world crushing in on him when he does that—and he _can’t_ do that anymore—

Michael uses all the strength he has left in him to push himself to standing. His head spins, so he falls back into his driver’s seat, his shoes digging into the gravel outside the door. Michael buries his face into his hands to muffle the wheezy sound he’s making, and forces himself to focus on the number one-hundred.

He has to stop panicking. His heart feels like it might bust and he’s shaky and tired and so over feeling this way.

He focuses on the next number on the count down. Ninety-seven.

He doesn’t want to move in with Damien.

Ninety-four.

He can’t.

Ninety-one.

And he doesn’t understand why he can’t.

Eighty-eight.

And as he focuses on numbers, he doesn’t understand why the only thing he can think about right now is why Jeremy Heere won’t call him.

Eighty-four.

_Let’s rewind._

Eighty—

“Hey, you need help?” A voice yells.

Michael jumps in his seat. He looks up and around, and oh, shit. It looks like he’s broken down on the side of the road. He suddenly hears the beeping again, his car complaining that the door is open, and somewhere in front of him a different car door slams shut. And his glasses are all smudged up from his hands and tears and breathing all over them. 

He takes them off and wipes them on his shirt. “Ye-yeah,” he says. Then he realizes that the person walking over to him asked him if he needed help, not if he was okay, and he needs to rephrase that. He coughs to clear his throat, but his throat still isn't working properly so he has to do it again, then he pushes himself off the driver’s seat so he can look a little more put together than he really is. “I-I mean. I’m fine. You can-”

“Oh,” a surprised voice says, on the other side of his car door. Michael slides his glasses back on and looks up, and all that breath he just got back is swept right out of him.

He’d recognize those hazy eyes anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art on its way! In the mean time, another mood board!
> 
> Ree Pasternack: https://queer-coffee.tumblr.com/image/617151124528676864


	18. Chapter 18

“Jeremy,” Michael breathes. Jeremy blinks at him, then pushes his glasses up and blinks again. 

“Did, um, are you,” Jeremy trips over his words. He takes a breath and starts over. “D-do you need a ride?”

Michael can’t look at those eyes. Instead he looks at a dent in his car door, right on the top. “No. I just . . .” Michael lifts his hand and runs his fingers over the dent. The door is cool to the touch. “No.”

“Oh.”

Michael runs his thumb over the dent, right over a rusty spot.

Michael stares at it, like it’ll give him the answers he needs. Like it’ll give him the inspiration to say yes to Damien. Like it’ll make it so Damien never even asked him in the first place.

Moving in with Damien.

Maybe moving in with him will fix Michael. And if that happens, he’ll be able to give Damien everything he deserves.

Michael can picture it.

He’d wake up every morning in a bed with too many pillows. On the right side, he thinks. The alarm would wake Michael up quickly, and he’d scramble to shut it off so he wouldn’t wake Damien, sleeping just next to him. It wouldn’t matter, anyways, because Damien could sleep through a hurricane, but Michael would be quick to turn it off, just in case. And then Michael would take a few minutes to adjust to being awake without getting up, and he’d spend those moments looking at Damien. He’d be sleeping with his mouth open, one hand above his head, and the other resting on his stomach, just like Michael’s seen him do so many times whenever he’d fall asleep on the couch.

“Are you okay?”

And Michael would let the world slow down a little before getting up, but eventually he'd have to. He’d get dressed at the foot of the bed, tripping over the holes in his ripped jeans, then go to the kitchen where he’d make a fresh pot of coffee to be stored away in the fridge for Damien. The psycho likes it opposite: iced coffee in the morning and hot in the afternoon. Then, about three hours into his morning shift, Michael would receive a good morning text from Damien. Probably some stupid selfie with Michael’s iced coffee. Michael would reply with heart emojis, saving his real words for when Damien would stop by near the end of Michael’s shift, at a decent time because Michael wouldn't work any more doubles. They’d kiss, just like always, and Michael would make Damien’s drink. They’d say bye, but both would know they’d be seeing each other at home—their home—later that night.

“Uhh.” And then Michael would get home first. Damien would get home late, from those extra classes.

They’d eat takeaway on the couch and watch old movies while Damien did homework, but Michael knows it wouldn’t be long before Damien’s leaning over, kissing him.

And Michael wouldn’t pull away. Michael would kiss back, so full and long and loving.

And then Damien would pull Michael off the couch and bring him to the bedroom. And Michael would give Damien everything he’s ever wanted. Michael would let Damien have anything he asked for. He wouldn’t have to ask for much, though, because Michael would crave Damien’s touch, his rough, yet gentle, hands, on every inch of his body. Michael would need it more than he needs air. And Michael would be so good to him.

Afterwards, they’d shower together, full of lazy smiles and slow, warm kisses under the water. And then, Michael would wrap Damien up in his arms in bed where they’d fall asleep, content and full and happy. Michael would love him, and love him, and promise to keep him safe forever.

Damien’s been looking so sad lately. Michael would make sure he was never sad again.

It’s a beautiful picture. Fit for a museum, Michael thinks. Behind glass and a red rope, where Michael can look at it and love it and dream he was inside it forever and ever. 

But Michael knows there’s a reason why pictures in museums are so beautiful.

“No,” Michael says.

Because you can look at them, and look at them, but no matter how long you look, you’ll never be allowed to touch.

And then Jeremy raises his hand, and he puts it on the door, too. Next to Michael’s.

Michael looks at it.

Michael and Jeremy were never beautiful. The picture they painted was messy and stupid and full of so many mistakes. Michael used to love that picture, but the longer he looked at it, the more mistakes he saw, until Michael took that picture and hid it in a box under lock and key, far in a corner of his brain. That picture could never be in a museum. 

And Michael knows every one of those mistakes. Jeremy painted so many of them, but Michael did, too.

And Michael can’t help but wonder, if he dug that old picture up, if he could touch it.

Michael looks up at Jeremy.

They used to have a handshake.

“Are you?” Michael asks.

Jeremy shakes his head. “No.”

And then Jeremy drops his hand and starts walking away. Michael’s grip on the door tightens, and he wants to shout at Jeremy to stop, to stay with him, to tell him everything will be okay. He wants to ask Jeremy to help him, because he wants to dig up that old picture, a thought so terrifying that he could never do it by himself.

But then Michael gets a hold of himself, just before he shouts.

No. He doesn’t need Jeremy to do that.

It’s weird he even thought of it at all.

He hid that picture for a reason.

But still, he can’t help but feel like the most lonely person in the world as Jeremy opens his car door.

Michael falls back into his drivers seat, letting his heels dig into the gravel beneath him.

One picture’s so beautiful it’s unattainable, and the other’s so far hidden that he doesn’t think he could even find it anymore. Not alone.

The sound of his passenger door opening startles Michael so badly he jumps.

“Sorry,” Jeremy says. Michael looks over his shoulder at him. He’s just standing there, looking like he wants to run. But instead of running, he sits, closing the door softly behind him.

Jeremy looks down at his own hands. His right is closed in a fist, but his left runs up and down his jeans, out of his control.

Michael looks at Jeremy.

Then, Michael pulls his feet into his car and shuts the driver’s side door.

The sounds of wind and traffic and crickets are gone in an instant, leaving Michael and Jeremy in near silence. Michael can hear the sound of Jeremy’s hand, running up and down his jeans.

Michael lifts his hand and rests it on his steering wheel. He runs it up and down the leather, then finds a spot to grip it tight. He closes his eyes, and thinks.

So many mistakes.

But, old pictures can be painted over, can’t they?

Jeremy lifts his head. 

His eyes land on a beanie baby, sandwiched between the windshield and the dashboard. He rubs his thumb over the rough fabric of the Zelda lanyard clutched tightly in his right hand.

Jeremy blinks at the beanie baby, wondering why on earth Michael ever kept such a thing.

It’s the same one he used to have, in his Loser Cruiser. The last time Jeremy saw this beanie baby was the last time he sat in that car, after he almost kissed Michael.

And Jeremy never really understood why he almost kissed Michael.

And he doesn’t understand why seeing Michael kiss Damien made him want to run.

And he doesn’t understand why he kept this lanyard.

_He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand._

That’s getting old. Jeremy told himself that he’d stop lying.

Jeremy runs his thumb over Michael’s lanyard. 

He knows why he kept it.

What he doesn’t understand is why it’s so terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art coming soon! Moodboard:
> 
> Christine Canigula: https://queer-coffee.tumblr.com/image/617685845193932800


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No art or moodboard this chapter guys! Sorry about that! But please enjoy the chapter :)

Jeremy jumps when Michael starts the car.

“Is your car locked?” Michael asks, shifting the gear to drive.

“Yes?”

Michael nods, then starts pulling out onto the street.

Jeremy freezes in his seat, his eyes landing on the beanie baby squashed under the windshield. They gave it a name one time. Jeremy can’t remember.

“Are you kidnapping me?” Jeremy asks, only half joking.

Michael lets out a breath next to him, like a small laugh, but not quite. Jeremy’s eyes move from the beanie baby to Michael. The corner of his mouth is turned up. His eyes don't show it, though.

Jeremy shifts in his seat, not quite knowing what to do. Something pokes him in the thigh.

He pulls a cassette out from under him, taking a second to shove his lanyard and keys in his front pocket. There’s something in purple sharpie scrawled on the front, but even with the overhead light on, Jeremy can’t tell what it’s supposed to be.

He feels Michael glance over at him. After a second, Michael holds his hand out, over the space between them, his eyes back on the road. Jeremy hands Michael the cassette.

Jeremy expects him to slide it in the cassette player. He does not expect Michael to throw it in the backseat. It lands with a hard thud. 

Before Jeremy can react, though, Michael whacks open the storage box between them, a foreign energy pouring from him. It makes Jeremy freeze in his seat.

Michael doesn’t take his eyes off the road. The car jerks a little as he steers with one hand, the other pulling out a different cassette. Michael steals a split second to glance at it. He throws that one back in the case, then pulls out another. This one seems to satisfy him. He thwacks the storage lid back down and jams the cassette into the player, then shuts off the light overhead.

It hisses for a few seconds. Michael adjusts the volume. Soon, music is playing softly in the space. Jeremy can’t place the band. It sounds nineties, though. It sounds like Michael.

Jeremy’s eyes land on the beanie baby. He can’t seem to get over it, and he can’t figure out why._ What was its name?_

“What?” Michael asks next to him. Jeremy looks at him. Michael looks back, quickly, before looking back at the road. Jeremy realizes he said that out loud.

“Didn’t it have a name?” Jeremy repeats. “Uh. The-the beanie baby . . .”

They’re turning onto the main road through town. 

“Oh,” Michael sounds surprised. “I don’t remember.”

“Oh.” 

Jeremy sinks back into his seat, feeling his body drain of tension as the world goes fuzzy around him.

God.

He really blew it with Lisa, didn’t he. 

She texted him and called him about ten times after he fucking ran out of the coffee shop like a child, but Jeremy just turned his phone off, ignoring it. Like a child.

He can feel his face heating up with embarrassment.

“God.”

Jeremy’s head falls back against the seat.

“Just call me Michael.”

Jeremy’s head rolls over to look at Michael, who has on the most apprehensive smile he’s ever seen. Jeremy lets out a breath, but it catches in his throat and turns into a sharp laugh.

“That was really stupid,” Jeremy says, liking how that apprenhensive smile melts into a real one.

“Heh. Yeah.”

Jeremy can’t remember what he was thinking about.

“Where are we going?” Jeremy asks instead. 

The window rolls down next to him. He looks through it. Fading summer air hits his face.

He doesn’t understand why he’s not more nervous than he is, in Michael’s car.

But it’s been a weird day.

And in this moment, with nineties playing over the cassette player, and the beanie baby squashed into the windshield, and summer air hitting his face as Michael drives and drives, Michael’s presence so obvious next to him, it almost feels like Michael never left at all.

“Dunno,” Michael says, shifting in his seat. He sticks his left hand out of his window, letting his palm surf on wind.

Is Jeremy supposed to say something now?

The silence stretches between them, saved only a little by the music. Jeremy judges it.

It’s not a safe silence, but it’s not quite awkward, either. He can’t figure it out.

He looks at Michael.

He can’t figure it out.

“Take a left here,” Jeremy says. Michael does.

Then they take a right where Jeremy says to, and drive straight for a couple miles. Soon, they’re pulling over to the side of the road, right in front of a two story brownstone building. Michael parks the car.

“Okay, I give up,” Michael says. “Where are we?”

Jeremy looks around. He doesn’t see Christine’s car.

“I-uh,” Jeremy says, suddenly realizing how fucking weird he’s being by bringing Michael here. “I live here?”

Michael just looks at him. Jeremy feels embarrassed all over again.

Jeremy has got to stop making rush decisions like this.

But then, Michael shuts the ignition off and starts getting out. Jeremy watches, his eyes catching on the shiny, scratched up red metal attached to Michael’s keys.

Michael’s keys are on a carabiner. It makes Jeremy feel even weirder, what with the thick fabric of the lanyard poking against his jeans.

Jeremy shakes his head, and gets out, too, slamming Michael’s car door shut. Michael walks around. Jeremy watches him clip the carabiner onto his belt loop.

Meanwhile, Michael feels dangerous. He feels reckless. His head is fuzzy and pretty congested and he could laugh at the drop of a dime. Or cry. He can’t figure out which he’s closer to right now.

Damien wants to move in with him and he started driving with _Jeremy_ in his car and Jeremy brought Michael to his apartment and Michael really wants to go digging for that messy painting of theirs somewhere in his brain and nothing makes sense anymore. 

Michael follows Jeremy to the door, hanging back a few feet because he feels like he might fall over any moment. Jeremy practically hugs the door as he jams his hand into his front pocket, probably to get his key. Michael tries to look around Jeremy’s shoulder to see whatever it is he looks like he’s hiding, but the door is unlocked quickly, and Jeremy’s hand is back in his pocket before Michael can bring himself to really care too much.

Jeremy steps in. He holds the door for Michael. Michael catches it and moves to keep walking in, but Jeremy’s frozen, looking at him, eyes wide, and lips parted.

“What?”

Jeremy blinks, because for a split second he’s back in Middleborough’s atrium on his first day of senior year, holding the front door open for someone who isn’t there.

But the moment passes quickly, so vivid that it can’t have been natural, and he tells himself this isn’t the atrium, and it isn’t his first day of senior year.

But he is holding the door open, and this time someone’s there.

And he’s wearing an oversized black crew neck instead of an oversized red hoodie, and there are definitely no white headphones, but he does have a gold nose ring, and he isn’t wearing seven bracelets on each arm, but instead wears them uncovered as if Jeremy wasn’t the cause for so many of the scars there.

And instead of grinning and wiggling his eyebrows at Jeremy from under his hood at the start of another day of high school, his mouth is turned downward, his eyebrows are pulling together, and he’s saying something that Jeremy can’t hear over the roaring in his ears.

Jeremy opens his mouth to ask Michael what he’s saying, but it isn’t until he can’t get the words out that he realizes he’s crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art on its way!  
Thank you so much for reading and leaving your super sweet comments on the last chapter! Your feedback and constructive criticism are super appreciated <3


	20. Chapter 20

Damien is a little stressed out.

He unlocks the door to his three story walk up, and pushes it open gently. The door creaks as it shuts.

It’s dark in the living room. The sun is just past setting, and the light streaming in from the curtain cracked open is weak at best. And it’s very quiet. His roommate must be out looking at other apartments. Damien lets out a sigh as he kicks off his ratty converse.

He drops his backpack on the couch and falls next to it. And he should really unzip his backpack and pull out his laptop and get to work because, God, veterinary school is a lot of work.

Or he should at least change out of this shirt that three different animals threw up on today and into a clean one, but instead he sinks further into the couch.

He has so much work, and so much to do, and not enough time to do it all.

Damien sets his paper coffee cup down on the coffee table in front of him, mostly empty. The thud of the cup on the table is loud in the quiet room.

Michael was stressed today, too, after Lisa left. And Damien wanted to ask him if he figured out the cassette art this month yet, but Michael looked so preoccupied and Damien was, quite honestly, terrified of the answer.

But still, being stressed sucks hardcore, and Damien thinks it might be nice if they could be stressed together. And maybe then he’ll be able to work up the nerve to ask him again.

Damien pulls his phone out of his pocket, ignoring the backpack next to him.

_hey, chill night tonight?_

Damien watches his screen. Michael’s a fast replier, unless there’s a rush at work, but he knows Michael is off work by now, so he expects those three dots to pop up within a few seconds.

But a few seconds have gone by and _Delivered_ never flips over to _Read._

One minute. Two minutes.

Damien calls Michael, but it rings and rings until going to voicemail.

And Damien knows to leave a voicemail so Michael doesn’t worry something is wrong, or that Damien’s mad or upset. It’s just something that Michael appreciates that Damien’s never minded before, knowing a bit about Michael’s past.

But Michael shouldn’t have to worry. Damien’s not mad. Damien’s just tired, too.

They used to do this thing, all the time, in college. A Chill Night. When they were both stressed to the max, they’d take a night off, no matter what was due, and just chill together. Sometimes they ranted and talked through it. That was usually Damien. Other times they just pretended everything was fine, and watched a documentary. Usually that was Michael.

And one night, they didn’t do either.

And since that night, Damien’s been having some thoughts. Bad thoughts, that could never be true. But he can’t help but wonder.

And as Damien listens to Michael’s voicemail message, those thoughts find their way back.

_January, Senior Year, College_

Damien’s phone is buzzing in his pocket. He finishes killing the mob in his game, then pulls his phone out and looks at it. It’s Michael. 

“Oh fuck.”

“What’s going on, Day?” A guild member says through Ventrillo. Damien shakes his head.

“I gotta go AFK for a sec.”

“Wait—”

But the headset is already off. Damien answers the phone.

“Yo.”

“Chill Night?” Michael asks. His voice is very weird.

“Yes! Where you at?”

“Uhh,” Damien hears rustling on the other end. “I’m leaving campus. Sorry, were you—?”

“No,” Damien leans forward in his chair. “No, I’m not doing anything.”

“Okay, um. Ten minutes?”

“Yeah, see you soon.”

Damien clears his throat and throws the headset back on. “Guys, I gotta go.”

“C’mon Day—”

_“We could hear you—”_

“Not doing anything? Bro—”

Damien listens to his guild teasing him on the other side. “Very fucking funny guys. Peace.”

Damien exits the game and logs off Vent and stands up. He bounces back from foot to foot, looking around. Oh, man. He needs to do something with his hands.

Coffee. Michael will want coffee.

Damien goes to the kitchen. He empties the coffee pot from that morning, gives it a rinse, and is just about to refill the pot with water when he stops.

Michael sounded really weird. Maybe this is a time for Fancy Coffee.

Damien puts the pot back into the coffeemaker. He digs through the cabinet above the sink and pulls out a French Press, instead.

Michael loves French press. Damien thinks it’s a pain in the ass to make, but Michael doesn’t. He also finds those expensive Ethiopian beans that he got for Michael's last birthday.

Damien can’t tell the difference between those and Maxwell House, if he’s going to be honest.

But they make Michael happy.

And ten minutes later, just as he’s pushing the plunger down on the grounds, he hears his buzzer go off.

Damien takes his time, though. Michael will be able to taste if he rushes this last step. Damien’s always forgetting to preheat the carafe, or is always letting it sit a minute too long. But today he makes sure to do it exactly right, and he’s not going to mess that up. Then, before the coffee has any chance to get bitter, he pours it into two mugs before buzzing Michael in.

Damien dumps the grounds and rinses the carafe out, letting it sit with soapy water in the sink. A few moments later, there’s a knock on his door.

Damien slides over in his socks and pulls it open.

Michael’s on the other side. He’s wearing a school hoodie, the hood pulled over his headphones. His forehead is all tense. Damien smiles at him.

Then, Michael’s forehead relaxes, and the tension in his shoulders drains. He slides his headphones off under his hood as he enters.

“ ‘Sup.”

“Hey.”

Michael falls on the couch and Damien goes to the kitchen. He feels Michael’s confused eyes on his back.

And when he comes back a few seconds later with the mugs, the confusion clears and a small smile fills that space.

Michael’s sleeves are pulled down over his hands. His hoodie brushes against Damien’s hand as he passes the mug over.

Michael pulls his legs onto the couch as Damien falls onto it next to him. 

“French press?”

“How can you—” Damien scoffs. “You didn’t even try it yet.”

“French press is like, really dark compared to drip. And it has like, those lighter, creamy bubbles on top. You know?” Michael says, taking a sip.

“Nerd.”

“This is good,” Michael says. And then he smiles down at it, and his eyebrows tilt up ever so slightly. And he looks so goddamn adorable, with his hood on and legs criss-crossed, looking into his mug, that it takes everything in Damien not to wrap him in his arms.

And Damien knows what he’s going to say next. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

Then Michael looks up at him, and leans in. Damien leans back.

Damien loves kissing Michael. Michael kisses so gently, so carefully. Damien loves it, and tries to kiss back the same. It’s sometimes difficult, though, because usually he just wants to tear Michael apart with his mouth.

He definitely can’t do that, though. And that’s okay, he tells himself.

Because Damien loves these kisses. It took a while for Michael to get to this point.

Damien knows that this kiss, which comes as easy as breathing to him, Michael has to think through to the last touch.

When he first met Michael, he always wondered what the dude’s deal was. He didn’t high five, and froze up or freaked out whenever Damien, or anyone, for that matter, touched him too suddenly.

Damien didn’t know what to think. His first thought was that there was some shady stuff going on in Michael’s home life, but then he went to Michael’s house and met his awesome moms and he knew that wasn’t the case. So, Damien just stopped touching him.

And Michael noticed, and Michael didn’t like Damien thinking there was something wrong with him, even though Damien never thought that at all.

That was the first time Michael opened up to him about his issues with touch, and Damien could see how hard doing that was for Michael. He could see how much Michael didn’t want to be like that.

And at first, Michael didn’t tell him everything. But Damien loves Google, and Google told him about how sometimes the foster care system can really suck, and how sometimes abuse slips through the cracks. It made Damien so angry.

Michael told him he was adopted in preschool. That’s old enough to leave scars.

Then one day, Damien asked Michael about it, when they started dating for real near the end of freshman year of college. And Michael got really quiet and told Damien more. Not a lot, but enough for Damien to understand really why Michael couldn’t do a lot of touch. It just made his mind bring up awful memories.

But that was the same night that Michael kissed him for the first time. And Michael told him that he wanted to work on it, with Damien. That he wanted to do more with Damien. That he thought maybe he could, with time, because Damien made him feel so safe.  
And Damien is thinking of that right now. Because usually these wonderful kisses only last a few seconds, but it’s been more than a few seconds, and Michael’s not pulling back.

And they’re still kissing, and it’s wonderful, and Michael’s _not pulling back._

And, woah, that’s Michael’s hand on his shoulder.

Wait, wait, “Wait.”

Damien pulls back first, which is something he never thought he’d do. “Michael?”

“I, um,” Michael says, looking a little shocked himself. Then, he laughs, and glances away to put his coffee down, looking at his hands. “Sorry. I just.”

“Sorry?” Damien smiles. “Are you kidding?”

“Today was uh. It wasn’t great, but I think. I-I guess, um. I want to, uh,” Michael shakes his head and drops his hands. “I think I want to . . . “

“Wait,” Damien has to tell his racing heart not to get ahead of him. “Wait. Are you—How do you feel right now?”

Michael catches his eye, then he looks down at the space between them. That space Damien has always wanted to close. “Damien?”

“Yes?”

“I think I feel okay. I think I’m okay.”

“Oh,” Damien replies. “Oh! Like. Like, to—Uh, What do you want to do right now?”

Michael looks back up. Damien has to physically restrain himself from pouncing on him. At least, until he gets the okay.

Holy shit, he might actually get the okay._ Holy shit holy shit—_

“I want to . . .” Michael says. And then Damien almost dies when Michael moves in closer, and picks up Damien’s hand. “I want to try something.”

“Something?” Damien breathes. His face is so close. He feels Michael’s fingers brush the front of his stomach as Michael plays with the hem of his shirt.

“Yeah,” Michael laughs. “Damien?”

“Yeah?”

Michael moves Damien’s hand to the hem of his hoodie. Damien takes it, and his fingers brush against Michael’s soft tummy. Michael rubs his thumb in a circle on the back of Damien’s hand.

“I want to try.”

“Okay, uh,” Damien’s brain is starting to short circuit, but he has to hold on a little longer, because he needs to get this clear. Based on what’s going on in his pants, Damien doesn’t think this will be any problem for him. He just needs to make sure there won’t be any problems for Michael. And he needs to make sure he’s not about to hurt Michael in any way, or make him feel unsafe. “Like. Sex?”

Michael nods. “Yeah.”

“Wait,” Damien’s heart leaps. “_Sex_ sex?”

“Yes,” Michael laughs, and watches Damien’s eyes widen, in this complete joy, and the corners of his mouth start to tug up in this ridiculous smile, and God.

Michael loves Damien.

Michael loves Damien so much.

And Michael hates how his brain is really stupid when it comes to touching, because sometimes accidentally brushing someone’s shoulder is enough to send him into a panic attack, but other times he can hold Damien’s hand, and he can never predict what way it’s gonna be. 

And though Damien doesn’t say it, Michael knows that those moments mean everything to him.

And Michael loves Damien. And Damien deserves more of those moments. Damien puts up with so much from Michael.

And Damien loves so much of Michael, too. All that Michael thinks is unlovable, like the scar tissue on his wrists, or the fact that his brain doesn’t let him deal with touch like a normal human would, or how he gets anxiety attacks over the stupidest things. Everything that’s wrong with him.

And Michael is constantly telling Damien how much he loves him for everything he gives Michael. But Michael’s been saying these things for a long time, and he’s worried that the words are getting old.

That they’re not enough. 

And God, Michael loves him. Michael wants to be enough for him.

Michael wants to show him, with another moment.

And today, he doesn’t know why, because the whole thing doesn’t make any sense, but today. After the shitshow that was opening the shop this morning before having to go to his worst classes after, and dealing with all that came with it, he had this weird feeling, like he wanted to see Damien, and kiss him and touch him and maybe . . .

“Tell me if I go too far, okay? Before I do, okay?” Damien says. Michael wants to laugh, because he can see how much Damien is holding back right now.

Damien is always holding back, for Michael. He doesn’t say it, of course, but Michael sees.

And Michael wants Damien to not have to hold back, for once, and have it be okay.

“Okay, Michael?” Damien says.

“I will, yeah,” Michael says. “And um. You too?”

And then Damien laughs at Michael. “What do you want me to do?”

And Michael takes a deep breath. Right now, Damien’s hand is on him, and they were kissing, and Michael’s brain isn’t supplying him with any pushed back memories. And maybe, more touch will be fine. Will be better, even.

Maybe, he can finally say what he’s always wanted to.

“I want you to not hold back.”

Michael needs this. Michael needs Damien to know how much Michael loves him.

And though Damien won’t say it, he knows how much Damien needs it, too.

Damien’s eyes light up like Michael just gave him the world, and he leans back into Michael.

And then they’re kissing. And wow, Michael thinks this is actually pretty wonderful. And he feels this warmth pool deep into his belly. And then Damien starts pulling his hoodie off, taking every opportunity to caress every inch of Michael he can get his hands on. 

And Michael feels every touch, so raw, and so much, and he wants it to be okay.

They break the kiss for just long enough to get Michael’s hoodie and shirt off. His headphones get thrown on the floor, forgotten. They kiss a little more, and then Damien’s shirt comes off, too, but not before he gets caught in it twice.

And then they’re kissing again, and it’s a lot.

Oh, God.

Michael’s bare skin against Damien’s is a lot.

And Michael’s heart rate picks up, but not for the right reason.

But it’s fine. Because Michael loves to kiss Damien. And that’s all they’re doing right now. Just without shirts and with a lot more touching.

And it should be fine.

But, oh God, it really is so much.

And then Damien’s hand moves down from Michael’s face and begins to tug at the top of Michael’s pants.

“This okay?” Damien says between kisses.

Michael’s brain starts to panic a little.

But Michael needs this to be okay. And he actually really fucking wants this, so he has to tell his brain to shut up as he says, “Yes.” 

And then Damien kisses him again, as he attempts to undo Michael’s belt at the same time. But Damien is not a great multitasker. And the ridiculousness of it cuts right through Michael’s whack emotions, and he laughs.

“Dude,” Michael says into the kiss. “One thing at a time.”

And Damien starts laughing, and the sound is so pure and giddy, that it becomes a little easier to push down those memories rising in Michael’s mind.

Michael can do this. Michael wants to.

Damien finally gets Michael’s belt undone, and Michael helps him pull his pants off. He loves how Damien laughs at his Pac-man boxers.

“God,” Damien says, pulling himself away for a second. He almost falls off the couch, but catches himself on the table. Michael feels his eyes all over him. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

And Michael thinks it’s hilarious, because Michael definitely isn’t beautiful. He’s scarred and chubby and his brain is a little broken. But instead of laughing, he just feels like crying.

And it’s so many emotions, all at once, and Michael can feel those memories he’s trying so hard to repress begin to fight back with every touch from Damien.

And Michael panics, and needs the attention off of him before those awful thoughts gain too much traction, so he leans forward and loops his thumbs in the waistband of Damien’s sweatpants.

“Classy,” he snorts. Damien runs his hands through Michael’s hair.

“Your hair is so soft,” Damien hums. “Even softer than it looks!” He runs his hands through Michael’s hair again. “Mmm, I’ve always wanted to do this.”

Michael wants to apologize for that. He’s so sorry that Damien never could.

Michael pushes that back, too, and pulls on Damien’s sweatpants.

And Damien isn’t wearing underwear.

“Classy, right?” Damien says. Michael pulls his gaze up to his eyes, and Damien looks ridiculously proud. Michael snorts.

“You’re beautiful, Day,” Michael says.

And Michael, so distracted, lets his guard down.

And then, he feels hands tugging at his boxers. Rough hands, where his legs meet his hips.

And because Michael's guard is down, his brain jumps in and takes the opportunity to show him, vividly, everything he was trying so hard to push down.

_No, no, no._

No, this time, it’s too much.

Michael stops breathing. His hands fly to the ones on his boxers, grabbing them, panicking to stop them.

“Michael?”

Michael shakes his head. And blinks up. It’s Damien. Michael knows it’s Damien. But Michael’s finding it hard to see him clearly.

Michael can’t move. Michael can’t think.

Michael looks at Damien.

And Damien looks at Michael.

Fuck. 

Michael looks . . . Michael can’t do it.

Damien’s heart sinks.

And Damien has to remind himself, over and over, as they sit on opposite ends of the couch later that night, each lost in his own world, that it’s not him. It’s not him.

That Michael can’t do it, but it’s not him. And it’s not Damien.

But Michael told him that he would be able to go that far with him. Michael _told_ him that.

But, God, Michael didn’t know. It’s not Michael’s fault.

And he shouldn’t even be thinking about this, because Michael probably has some sort of PTSD or something, but as Damien sits there, drinking his coffee reheated in the microwave, staring at one of Michael’s drawings on his wall, he can’t help but wonder if he’s good enough for Michael to have.

God, Damien’s never felt like enough for _anyone_. And Michael. He just thought he could be enough, for once. For the person who means the most to him. And the thought just makes him _so_—

Damien shakes his head. No, he can’t think like that. He breathes, focusing on the number one hundred. Ninety seven. Ninety four.

He _is_ enough for Michael.

Right?

Damien convinced himself that he could wait as long as Michael needed to do anything. But today, he almost had it, and this awful realization is hitting him that maybe, he can’t wait.

Damien wants to have Michael like that. He needs it.

And he has this suspicion that Michael doesn’t, and is only making himself try it for Damien’s sake.

And Michael should never have to do that. Michael’s worth way more than that.

And Damien can feel this horrible thing being planted in his brain, that maybe Michael won’t ever be ready.

And that’s okay, Damien reminds himself. Breathing and counting and breathing. That should be okay.

But, God, Damien hates this part of him that’s telling him it isn’t. He hates this part of him that wants this thing from Michael that Michael will probably never be able to give. He hates this part of him that’s insisting it’s Damien’s own fault. And he hates what this part of him is making him think and feel—white hot and deep in his core—what it's doing to him to make him have to count and count and count to ease that feeling.

Damien shakes his head, exhaling hard, and looks over at Michael, curled up in his hoodie, leaning against the armrest. His chest is rising and falling steadier than usual, and the grip on his mug is so loose that it could fall any second.

Damien breathes.

He doesn't have to count when he looks at Michael.

He looks so peaceful when he sleeps.

_hey, chill night tonight?_

Damien curls up on the couch a little tighter as Michael’s voicemail beeps for a message.

And Damien knows how Michael works. When something is bothering him, he doesn’t talk about it. He uses work to distract himself.

And Michael’s been working a lot lately. 

Michael’s been so tired lately.

And that awful thing that planted itself in Damien’s brain, way back in January, is starting to take root.

These thoughts can’t be true. They can’t be right.

He can’t help but wonder, though.

Damien hangs up. He doesn’t leave a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art coming soon! <3
> 
> Thank you so much for all your super nice feedback! All constructive criticism and all your sweet comments are super appreciated! <3 Next chapter coming hopefully within the week! Thanks for reading! <3


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay for getting this chapter out! I've been pretty busy!

“Jeremy?”

“Michael,” Jeremy squeaks. His eyes are shiny.

Oh. Oh fuck. Michael’s not equipped for this. Especially not right now, with his head still fuzzy from his own panic attack.

“Uh,” Michael watches Jeremy put his hand over his mouth, something he’s always done when crying, too embarrassed to have anyone watch his face go all messed up. The action throws Michael.

“_Michael,_” He looks at Michael through blurry tears like the most sorry person in the world, and Michael really doesn’t want that to happen right now.

“Jere, buddy, come on,” Michael steps in the door, placing his hand lightly on Jeremy’s forearm to nudge him further inside. At his touch, though, Jeremy’s dam breaks, and he starts sobbing.

Michael shuts the door behind him.

“Hey, hey, hey, you’re alright,” Michael says, nudging Jeremy around to face him.

“No, it’s—not—_alright,_ Michael—” Jeremy steps back, using his other hand to cover his face. “_Shit._”

Michael takes a step towards Jeremy. Jeremy trips backwards over the staircase behind him and lands with a thud. He barely seems to notice. 

“Jere, I—”

“_Stop calling me that,_” Jeremy gets out, voice heavy and ragged and muffled behind his hands.

Michael freezes. He blinks at Jeremy, curled up on the stairs, feeling something sharp pang in his chest.

“Oh.”

Jeremy’s sobs start to die down rather quickly. Michael slowly sits next to Jeremy, wrapping his arm around the banister post. He distracts himself by tracing the wood grain.

Michael’s always called Jeremy that.

Soon, Jeremy’s only sniffing next to Michael. Michael doesn’t trust himself to say anything.

“You’re here,” Jeremy says after Michael’s traced half the pole. “You’re actually here.”

That sharp pang in Michael’s chest moves up to his throat.

“After you—” Jeremy shakes his head, one hand still covering his mouth. “Why?”

Michael shakes his head. He can’t speak with how tight his throat feels.

“Michael.”

“I . . .”

Michael presses his hand against his forehead in a really stupid attempt to stop the tidal wave of thoughts from happening, but he can’t be so lucky.

Why?

Because Jeremy stopped by the side of the road after Michael found out he doesn’t want to move in with his boyfriend that he’s supposed to love, that he _does_ love, because he got in Michael’s car instead of leaving him to fall into the gravel crying, because he didn’t freak out when Michael started driving because Michael couldn’t stop thinking of museum paintings, because he brought Michael to his home, because Michael was afraid if he went to his own home right now he’d never leave again, because Michael hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him in weeks, because Michael wants to be here, he wants to be here, “I want to be here.”

Jeremy stands up so quickly that Michael doesn’t realize he’s walking up the stairs until he’s halfway up. Michael scrambles to follow.

By the time he’s reached the second floor landing, Jeremy’s halfway across it, pulling his keys out of his pocket, wiping his face and eyes hard. His voice shakes, from just crying or embarrassment or anger, Michael can’t tell. “If you _want to be here_ so bad, then come in.”

And oh. Michael thinks he knows which, now.

Jeremy isn’t looking at Michael. Michael can’t quite look at Jeremy.

And this suddenly feels so wrong. Like whatever was happening in the car was just a beautiful dream and he just, much too quickly and violently, woke up. The hair on Michael’s arms stands up, and his muscles tense, and he thinks he should just go home to deal with Damien. With reality. With the life that Jeremy isn’t even a part of anymore.

But then Jeremy finds his keys, and he pulls them out to unlock his door, and they’re followed by old green fabric, so faded that the triforces can’t even be made out anymore, and Michael finds it hard to speak again, but for completely different reasons.

Jeremy unlocks his door and he throws it open, his hand dropping by his side. The lanyard swings against his leg.

Jeremy feels Michael’s eyes on his lanyard. And Jeremy wants to just fall through the floor, through the ground, right to the center of the Earth where he can stay forever because he is so embarrassed that he _just did that_ and doesn’t think he’ll be able to face anyone ever again.

It’s just, despite what he said, Michael seemed like he was going to leave, and the lanyard seemed like a way to get him to stay, in the split second he thought it through. And, well, Jeremy doesn’t know if he can handle Michael leaving again.

And Jeremy should _really_ stop making rush decisions.

The lanyard stops bouncing against his leg. Jeremy takes a sharp, loud inhale and darts inside, shutting the door quickly behind him.

“Oh God.” What is he _doing?_

Three hesitant knocks sound behind him. “Jere?”

Oh _God._

Jeremy spins around and opens the door before he can think too much. 

Michael’s hand is raised limply, like he was going to knock again. He’s biting his lip and his eyes look all wide and he doesn’t look like he’s aged a second.

“Can I come in?”

Jeremy steps backward, not quite sure if he’s going to shut the door again, then Michael walks through.

And Jeremy suddenly regrets every decoration decision he and Christine ever made.

The horrible mismatched furniture, the green sofa with another sofa’s blue cushions, both of their clothes thrown around the living room like it was a laundry hamper, shelves stacked with musical theatre Funkos and comic books and the walls lined with stupid cheesy posters they’d make fun of at Target. The dishes haven’t been done anytime recently and it looks like Christine was baking something earlier, by the look of the flour handprint on the fridge, which has so many photos and magnets and casting calls that the door can’t even be seen anymore. Half the fairy lights need replacing and the walls need repainting and now Michael Mell is standing in the middle of it all and Jeremy thinks the center of the Earth sounds pretty good right about now.

Michael’s looking at something on the floor. Jeremy tries to follow his gaze but it just lands in a heap of his and Christine’s laundry. “Is that my, uh,” Michael says, shaking his head and looking back at Jeremy, “lanyard?”

Jeremy holds it up, and he surprises himself with a weak smile, because the corner of Michael’s mouth starts tilting up, and this time it does reach his eyes. “Heh, uh.”

“_Dude,_” Michael swipes the strip of fabric from Jeremy’s grip and rubs his thumb over it. “I totally forgot about this thing!”

Jeremy found it knocked off the table a few weeks after Michael left, while he was cleaning the mess that he and his dad called a kitchen. Jeremy remembers finding it, confused, because Michael had always kept his keys on it after Jeremy had given it to him for his birthday one year, and what would Michael be doing without his keys?

But then Jeremy realized there were no keys attached, as if Michael had taken them off knowing he was going to leave the lanyard at Jeremy’s house. Almost like he was returning it.

It was the first time Jeremy considered the fact that Michael might have really left for good, and that he’d thought it through that much before even showing up at Jeremy’s house, that last day. Jeremy felt numb for weeks after.

“Yeah,” Jeremy looks at the lanyard, back in Michael’s hands. “You did.”

“Wow,” Michael’s smiling. He gives it back to Jeremy, who can’t take his eyes off of it.

Michael’s talking, but Jeremy can’t hear what he’s saying. And Jeremy can’t stop thinking of how sorry he was when he found this lanyard, so he has to say this now because his heart is pounding and pounding and his hands are sweating and if he doesn’t say it now he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say it and if he never says it he’ll never be able to fix it—

“Michael, I’m sorry.”

Michael stops talking. Jeremy doesn’t look up at him as he rubs and rubs the lanyard.

Michael blinks at Jeremy, watching him toy with an especially faded spot on the lanyard, completely missing what he said. “What?”

“I’m . . .” Jeremy rubs his hand over his jaw. Michael realizes with a start that there’s a little bit of stubble there. Jeremy never could grow anything in high school. “I’m sorry.”

“Jeremy, I don’t think—”

“No, Michael I—” The words tumble out of Jeremy, but he stops the second he catches Michael’s eye. Jeremy swallows.

There’s so much there. And Jeremy doesn’t miss it. Not this time.

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy continues. He won’t repeat that mistake. Ever again, if he gets the chance. “What were you saying?”

Michael holds his gaze for another few seconds, then lets out a shaky breath. He walks around the couch and sits down, kicking his shoes off. Jeremy watches as Michael runs a hand through his hair and pulls at it where it’s longest.

It makes Jeremy’s stomach drop. Michael starts speaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art coming!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanna throw up a quick reminder to pay attention to the fic's tags before this chapter. Thanks!

“I don’t think I can do this right now,” is what Michael says. He’s staring at a pink hoodie that looks remarkably like one he used to have, right on Jeremy’s floor, underneath a denim dress. 

He vaguely wonders if Jeremy lives with a girlfriend, and it feels weird that Jeremy possibly lives with a girlfriend and Michael never even knew.

It’s just something he would have known, at one time.

And that thought makes Michael’s throat go all weird again, and he thinks maybe he _has _to do this now.

“I mean,” Michael continues, but he doesn’t know what he means, and his throat just keeps getting tighter.

Jeremy takes a step towards Michael, then hesitates for a second before he quickly sits down on the armrest. After a moment, though, Michael can feel Jeremy’s eyes on him. He’s looking at Michael’s arm.

“When . . . When did you stop, uh,” Jeremy looks at Michael’s face, but Michael doesn’t meet his gaze. “Wearing bracelets.”

Oh.

Michael doesn’t know why that makes him mad.

Five years later, and that’s what Jeremy starts with?

“They, um,” Michael says. Michael’s never talked about this, and he’s not sure he really wants to.

But then Michael thinks of that messy, mistake-ridden painting, and every other thing that he’s so carefully shoved into little boxes in his brain over the course of five years. And he thinks how, maybe, he’d really like to see those things again.

And this whole mess was started by what he used to hide under those bracelets, after all, so maybe Jeremy has a point.

But, five years of packing, and Michael’s not sure if he’s ready to unpack it quite yet. 

God_damn_ it.

“They got old and started breaking. I just never replaced them.” The words feel weird in his mouth. Michael looks down. He realizes he’s playing with the hem of his crewneck. He drops it, looking at his wrists. There’s some clear scar tissue there, but the word he made that Halloween isn’t clear unless he makes a tight fist. He does, just to see.

One time at work, he wasn’t paying attention and boiling milk right off the steaming wand spilled over on his arm. Since then, it’s been hard to make out that word. “I guess I just stopped caring after I—” Michael unclenches his fist, “—stopped.”

Jeremy makes a suppressed noise in the back of his throat next to him, before he stands up.

“When did—” Jeremy stops abruptly, then makes another weird noise as he walks to the kitchen. Michael can’t see him, from where he’s sitting. 

“When I started working at Vagabond, I think.” He just couldn’t keep it up, working there. Too much risk of, well, spilling steaming milk all over his arm.

And he thinks of Ree, that night she noticed and very loudly asked him about it.

He was mortified at the time, but well. Hindsight.

“Oh,” Jeremy says, but not quite like he understands.

And well, it was Jeremy who brought it up, and Michael thinks it’s suddenly very necessary for Jeremy to understand. He _asked_ for it, after all.

“It was weird,” Michael continues, his voice oddly light, “Ree—she’s the cook—she noticed like a week after I started working there, and,” Michael laughs a little, “she started yelling at me.”

Michael can almost hear her voice. “It was my very first shift working on bar by myself. She called me a stupid fucking idiot and then went on about health code or something. Oh my God, it was terrifying. She’s terrifying,” Michael looks at the hem of his crewneck. Somewhere along the way, he picked it up again. “But then, after she was done listing off every health code I was violating, she—” Michael stops talking. Jeremy doesn’t need to know that part.

He can’t ruin Ree’s tough-girl reputation, after all.

“Y-yeah?” Jeremy’s voice sounds close behind him.

“Well. Let’s just say she’s a big reason I was able to —” To stop. Michael swallows, feeling suddenly so ashamed. He wonders what Ree would say if she knew what he, well, _almost _does. What he thinks of doing, some nights.

And that ashamed feeling dissipates, the more he thinks about it, because Ree would probably laugh in his face the moment he’d tell her how it’s the thought of _her _that usually puts Michael’s mind right. She’d get a kick out of that.

Either way, it’s a good thing he’s gotten so good at shoving those kinds of thoughts away.

Michael feels Jeremy walk away behind him, then he hears the very familiar sound of someone taking a coffee pot out of the maker.

“Uh,” Michael says, feeling his stomach swoop a little, “you, don’t—”

“—have to do that?” Jeremy finishes.

Michael smiles down at his hands. “Yeah.”

Michael doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He hears Jeremy fill the carafe with water, then pour it into the maker. Soon after, the maker starts hissing and sputtering and cabinets start opening.

Michael’s mind wanders as Jeremy hustles around behind him. It goes to Ree’s laughing face for a bit, but he doesn’t have too many thoughts on the matter. Of course, though, after that it goes straight to Damien and the cassette that’s probably on the floor in the backseat.

Michael’s heart rate spikes at that and he does _not_ want to think about it anymore so he quickly refocuses on the sounds Jeremy is making behind him, pushing those thoughts into a new little box in his brain.

Later. He’ll deal with that later.

Soon, Jeremy’s shoving a mug of coffee into Michael’s hands. Michael blinks at it. The mug is blue.

Jeremy sits down on the coffee table, not quite across from Michael. Just to Michael’s right.

Michael takes a sip. It’s Café Bustelo.

“Sorry,” Jeremy says.

Michael hums. Mr. Heere always drank Café Bustelo.

“No, I. It’s fine. Um. Good,” Michael says. It tastes like tires.

Someone revs a motorcycle outside, past Jeremy’s apartment. The sound dies down, and a heavy hush washes over them. They sit in it, for a few minutes. Michael drinks his coffee, and Jeremy’s brain whirs.

“I really, um,” Jeremy says. Michael stops tracing the mug’s lip. “I really sucked, didn’t I.”

Michael considers lying for a half second.

“Yeah.” He waits for Jeremy’s ever-present apology to come.

But, it never does. Michael looks at Jeremy after a few sorry-less seconds, surprised. He doesn’t look entirely like he’s not about to apologize, either, but still. It doesn’t come. And Michael doesn’t know what to make of it.

Michael opens his mouth, then closes it. Then, “You never listened.”

“I just—” Jeremy stops himself. It makes Michael feel on edge. “I know.”

Jeremy’s face is screwed up and he’s biting his lip so hard Michael can’t believe it’s not bleeding.

“I mean,” Michael continues, trying to scramble away from this edge. “I sucked, too.”

At that, Jeremy looks at him. Michael looks back down at his coffee before Jeremy can catch his eye.

“I, um,” Michael sniffs. “I think I have this problem, or this thing, where I just? Instead of, I don’t know, talking about—_thinking_ about anything, I just. Don’t. And I let it build. And like. Before—anytime you did try to talk to me, after the Squip and everything. I just. Didn’t. I’d just shut the conversation down and . . .” And shove those thoughts into a little box.

Oh.

Michael thinks of that little box labeled ‘Damien’ in his brain.

Oh, fuck.

“But then, when you finally tried to make things better—” Jeremy continues, but cuts himself off again.

“What?” Michael says, and it comes out a little too loud, but Michael’s trying to drown out the chaos that’s currently happening in his brain. “Stop doing that.”

Because Jeremy keeps stopping himself, but Michael needs Jeremy to keep talking right now so he has something different to focus on, so he can stay focused on this because it is suddenly, viscerally, important that he and Jeremy have this conversation for reasons Michael doesn’t want to think about.

“Stop doing what?” Jeremy leans forward on the table, and it’s almost like he’s trying a little too hard to please Michael, and that sends Michael right over that edge he was trying so hard to avoid.

“Not _finishing_ your thoughts, Jere,” Michael snaps, punctuating each syllable, and he can’t help it when he bites, “—_remy_.” And he wishes he didn’t say that the second it’s out of his mouth, because he knows Jeremy didn’t really mean it when he said it in the hall earlier, and that he was just stressed.

But fuck, Michael’s stressed, too, and Jeremy never used to do that stopping-sentence thing, and Michael doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, but he just wishes he could go back in time five years where Jeremy didn’t do that, and Michael wasn’t so touchy over everything, and nothing was different.

But then Michael remembers that’s where the whole problem started in the first place and he hates everything for it.

“_Jesus Christ_—I’m just trying to-to—” Jeremy stands up abruptly, making this growling sound, and stalks to the end of the couch, facing away from Michael. “_God._”

“I _said_ you could call me Michael,” Michael snaps at Jeremy’s back before he can help it.

Jeremy opens his mouth, but stops himself, thankful that Michael, at least, can’t see it this time.

When did Michael get so mean? It’s just, he can’t remember them ever having a single real fight, aside from, well, that night on Halloween that caused all this. And Michael wasn’t mean, then. Michael was just right. It was Jeremy who was mean. 

And, right now, that just pisses Jeremy off more.

Michael was always so calm. He was always so chill, always able to brush everything off. Michael used to say it was because he had Jeremy, they had their two-player game, and that’s all that mattered to him.

And then, well, Michael didn’t have Jeremy anymore. But he was never mean after, no. He just got quieter and quieter until he was gone.

But maybe this abrasive Michael was always there, like a riptide under calm waters. And he wonders if maybe something happened to Michael, after he left, to bring all that to the surface, to turn those currents into crashing, biting waves. and Jeremy has to throw a hand over his mouth when he remembers it was _him_ that did that.

But that guilty thought passes quickly, and Jeremy bitterly thinks that, _maybe_, if Michael fought back five years ago instead of letting Jeremy just think everything was so _perfect_, he never would have disappeared because then they could have really talked.

But Michael did disappear. And somewhere along the way he met people like Ree and Damien, people who did for Michael what Jeremy never did in the first place.

They noticed. They listened. And by doing that, they taught him it was okay to fight back.

And Jeremy’s anger wavers, then disappears, and then he’s just sad.

And then he’s just so sorry he wasn’t that friend for Michael, at a time when he was Michael’s only friend.

“When you finally tried to make things better that night I—” Jeremy stops and swallows, mortified because he almost said _kissed you._ “That night. I didn’t listen.”

“No,” Michael agrees.

His voice is cold.

“I’m sorry I jumped to stupid conclusions.”

“Well, you did,” Michael agrees, “But—”

“And I’m sorry,” Jeremy snaps, sounding more angry than sorry. He stops, to fix it. “I’m sorry I made you—do that—Halloween—”

“Jeremy—” Michael cuts him off. “You didn’t make me do anything.”

“But I knew you might—”

“Which maybe was—_maybe_ was—irresponsible, but I still did it. To myself._ I_ was stupid, and yeah, you were too, but for something completely different,” Michael steals a moment to look at Jeremy. Michael half expects Jeremy to not really be listening, but is surprised to see that he is, those hazy eyes laser focused.

“I did this, though,” Michael continues, his voice thawing in Jeremy’s gaze, and he runs his hand up and down where that scar used to show so prominently. “I need you—You need to know that.”

That gaze widens, then suddenly Michael isn’t looking at it anymore. Jeremy runs his hands over his face, and when he drops them, he’s staring at the floor.

And now Jeremy just needs to know what else he did wrong, so he can make everything better.

“Then what do you want me to apologize for, Michael?”

And Jeremy half-shouts it so quickly, almost frantically, like he needs to know this thing that Michael’s never had an answer for, that Michael doesn’t have an answer for.

It throws Michael right off his track. He has no idea where this is even coming from.

Jeremy falls onto the coffee table again, landing with a pathetic _thump._

“What do you—” Michael starts, but then Jeremy’s confused gaze snaps to Michael’s.

And Michael feels the room spin, because all of a sudden, he’s in the auditorium at Middleborough, on stage for the only time ever, clutching a bottle of Mountain Dew Red behind his back, demanding an apology from Jeremy. Denying Jeremy what he needs until Michael gets what _he_ needs.

The last of Michael’s anger fizzles out, and he’s left feeling numb.

Suddenly, everything makes a little more sense.

Every apology Jeremy ever gave him after that night, even for things Michael didn’t even consider apology-worthy, flash like a motion picture in Michael’s brain.

Jeremy never used to apologize that much, not until after the Squip.

And Michael never realized what was going on, because, in Michael's mind, “You already apologized.”

And it comes out so small and scared, almost like a question, and hearing himself sound like that nudges Michael right over the edge, again. He muffles the soft cry that escapes him with his hand.

No, he is _not_ going to start crying again. 

“What are you talking about?” Jeremy yelps, releasing all that he was stopping, before.

“In the—the auditorium—the play—” Michael swallows, trying to ease the tension in his throat. “You apologized, then. That was enough, Jere, you didn’t—” Michael looks at Jeremy, feeling every guard he tries so hard to keep up around him absolutely crumble. “You don’t have to keep apologizing Jeremy.”

“Oh.”

“You just had to listen.”

“Oh,” Jeremy relaxes back against the coffee table, sniffing. Michael coughs, wiping away the few tears that annoyingly escaped his will power.

“Oh,” And suddenly Jeremy’s crying again. “I was never really good at that.”

“I _know,_” Michael shakes his head, and he catches Jeremy’s eye.

And Michael’s surprised that, somewhere in his crying, he’s laughing, too.

Jeremy sees it, in Michael’s eyes, and soon he’s laughing with him. “We were so—so—”

“_Stupid,_” they shout together.

And then they’re laughing more than crying, and soon that dies down, too, leaving them looking at each other. Their eyes are wide, their faces wet, their breaths shaky. Each so scared to break this fragile moment. Scared of what it will mean to be on the other side of it.


	23. Chapter 23

The first thing Michael thinks as he’s waking up is that he should stop pulling so many doubles because it’s causing some weird dreams.

The second thing Michael thinks as he’s waking up is that his bed got seriously uncomfortable at some point over night.

The third thing Michael thinks as he’s waking up is that his ceiling must have caved in because that has to be the explanation for what seems to be a foot on his chest.

That cannot be a foot. That has to be the ceiling.

Because if that is a foot that means that everything he dreamt about last night wasn’t a dream, and it means he probably fell asleep at Jeremy Heere’s apartment with Jeremy Heere’s foot on his chest.

And he cannot have fallen asleep at Jeremy Heere’s apartment because he really needs to be at his own apartment since he opens this morning.

But even if he did fall asleep at Jeremy Heere’s apartment, he has an alarm set on his phone, and that would wake him up in time to get to work. So really, everything is okay.

But, come to think of it, he can’t remember unplugging his phone from his car before he got out, and he definitely can’t feel it in any of his pockets.

And as this thought dawns on Michael, he decides not to open his eyes quite yet because the minute he opens his eyes is the minute he’s probably fired from Vagabond.

But then a door slams somewhere, and it startles Michael so badly that he opens his eyes without meaning to. He’s blurrily looking up at a very dirty ceiling. And then someone starts yelling.

“Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy Heere!”

The voice sings. Michael closes his eyes again, willing this all to be a dream because there is no way that is Christine Canigula’s voice.

“You’re not going to buh-_lieve—_”

The yelling must startle Jeremy because, very suddenly, the foot that was on Michael’s chest is on Michael’s face.

“Ow, _fuck!_” Michael scrambles bolt upright, his hand flying to his nose. “Ow, ow, ow—”

“ ‘Was goin’ on?” The voice attached to that foot mumbles. Michael feels a weight shift on the end of the couch as Jeremy sits up.

And through Michael’s eyes, blurry from sleep and just getting kicked in the face, he sees Christine Canigula, frozen in the open doorway.

Michael blinks again, clearing his vision, and Christine is looking right at him.

Her face falls, slowly.

Jeremy is rubbing his eyes in front of Michael, then drops his hands, Michael sees him catch on to what’s happening.

“Oh,” Christine says, flatly, her voice completely different than how it was five seconds ago. It makes Michael scared to move or speak or breathe because, well, he hasn’t seen Christine since July, over five years ago now.

He blinks at her, and she blinks back at him. Her hair is a little longer now, worn in two braids, and she’s wearing Bohemian pants and a big purple hoodie, but somehow the look doesn’t swallow her like it would him. She drops her knapsack on the floor, then moves to the kitchen with her eyes squeezed closed.

“No,” she shakes her head, Michael rubs at his nose which still hurts a little as she reaches the coffee pot. “No, no, no. Absolutely not, Jeremy Heere.”

Michael looks at Jeremy, whose face is going extremely red. “Uh.”

Michael feels very exposed out of nowhere just sitting here, so he scrambles off the couch, feeling exceptionally stale wearing yesterday’s clothes. Plus, he’s pretty sure there’s a mark on his face from having it pressed into Jeremy’s couch. 

Or, well. Jeremy and Christine’s couch. Because Christine lives with Jeremy and that means that’s Christine’s denim dress on the floor which means that Christine and Jeremy are probably dating or something and the thought makes Michael _very_ much want to leave.

“Uh, hi,” he says instead, his voice hoarse. He tries to clear it, but thinks he makes it worse.

And, oh God. He can’t think about all this right now because the sun is most definitely up behind those curtains and he definitely had to be at Vagabond before that happened.

He looks up and catches Christine’s eyes, which are now open. She’s dumping out the extra coffee from last night. Michael quickly looks down, trying to find his shoes.

“Yo,” Christine says. She must look at Jeremy, then, because Jeremy speaks with a start.

“Uh, um, I—”

“What happened to Lisa?” She says, and that makes Michael drop his shoe because he knows a Lisa, but then he recovers because Lisa isn’t exactly an uncommon name and everything is probably fine because that’s probably a different Lisa.

But more importantly, why is Christine talking about a Lisa?

“Um, she, um,” Jeremy says, suddenly standing up, too, next to Michael. Michael sits back down to put on a shoe, and so he doesn’t have to look at Christine because seeing her here is really freaking him out. 

And his brain supplies him with the thought that it’s probably because he never even went to say goodbye to her, like he did Jeremy—

“I thought you were trying to go out with Lisa—”

—Even though that was really kind of a pathetic excuse for a goodbye, and—Wait. Michael’s brain record-scratches.

“I-I mean. I am—”

Wait. Okay, so Christine is not Jeremy’s girlfriend?

“What?” Chrstine yells.

“Or maybe _was,_ now—”

“Wait, did she ask you out or something?” Christine drops the old grounds into the overflowing garbage.

“Why do you assume _she_ asked _me_ out?”

“So she did?”

“Yes. Oh my God, Christine,” Jeremy says, very quickly and very high.

That makes Michael stop, his left shoe only half on.

Something weird pools into Michael’s stomach. But then Michael shakes his head. It’s not really his business who Jeremy’s going out with. It’s just, well. It’s kind of weird he didn’t mention it last night.

Last night they caught each other up, taking turns sharing snippets from their lives. Michael told Jeremy all about Vagabond, all about Ree and Slava and Ari and every other awesome person that works there. He told Jeremy about when his old car broke down and he had to buy his Mustang, and all about refurbishing it up to play cassettes. He told him about his college and major and how his moms keep asking him how his job search is going, but how he doesn’t really want to leave Vagabond anytime soon. 

But he didn’t tell Jeremy how he hasn’t told anyone that last bit yet, how it was actually the first time he ever voiced those thoughts. How it was the first time he didn’t just shove them back into a little box for later.

Not even Damien knew.

And that’s another thing Michael didn’t tell Jeremy about.

So maybe he can’t really blame Jeremy if Jeremy never mentioned anything about a girlfriend.

It’s just weird, is all.

Michael glances up from his shoe, he catches Jeremy’s eye, and Jeremy looks guilty.

“So then what the heck is Michael Mell doing sleeping with you on our couch?”

“_Woah—_” Michael almost falls off the couch.

“I, um,” Jeremy squeaks. “No, we just fell asleep—”

“That’s what I said,” Christine tuts, her mouth twisting up in a sly sort of grin. “Get your minds out of the gutter!”

Jeremy looks at Michael as he stands up.

And no, oh no. This is not going to plan at all. He wasn’t going to tell Michael anything about his—his _love_ life, or whatever, because right now everything in that area of his life is very confused because those thoughts, which should be Lisa thoughts, keep getting mixed up with his Michael thoughts and the timing of everything is pretty shitty and Jeremy just needs a little more time to sort it out before anyone knows anything. Especially Christine and extra especially Michael.

And he extra, extra especially does not need Christine making sex jokes involving Michael right now because that makes Jeremy feel weird on so many different levels even outside of all his mixed up thoughts—

“I—” Michael pauses, looking back and forth between him and Christine. “No.” Then, he shakes his head. Jeremy watches him pick up the end of his crewneck. He toys with it as he asks Jeremy, “Just—What time is it?”

Oh fucking hell. Jeremy is supposed to be at work. Right now, by how the sun is streaming across the laundry on the floor, and this just couldn’t get any worse, could it?

“It’s ten-thirty,” Christine says, her voice way too even. Jeremy looks at her. She takes a deep inhale, then a long exhale.

And oh God, that’s not good.

But it’s also not good that it’s ten-thirty. And, well, not getting fired is probably higher up on his priority list right now then explaining anything to Christine.

“Oh fuck,” Michael says, overlapping Jeremy’s “Oh shit.”

Michael clears his throat and Jeremy realizes how thirsty he is, but no time for that because he’s got to get to the library.

“I was supposed to open,” Michael rubs his hands over his face. “Oh fuck, I don’t even want to look at my phone right now.”

And his voice sounds really high and stressed and Jeremy feels pretty much the same way as he jams his converse on.

“Where’s your ph—”

“My car. And oh fuck, _your_ car—”

“Shit,” Jeremy looks around the floor and spots his Zelda lanyard almost under the coffee table. He scoops it up and finds his phone in his pocket, turning it on.

Somewhere is the distance, Christine is laughing at something Michael is telling her about Jeremy’s car, but all Jeremy can focus on are the seven missed calls flashing across his screen. Four from Lisa, three from Mary, and the first thing he thinks is, “Oh God I am so fired.”

“Oh my God same,” Michael mumbles, tone of his voice changing quickly. “Here, I’ll give you a ride to work and we’ll—we’ll get your car later . . .”

“Yeah, okay,” Jeremy says, making towards the door.

“No, brush your teeth first!” Christine yells from the kitchen. Jeremy turns around, Michael brushes past him to the door.

And Christine is looking at him with a _we need to talk_ face and definitely not a _go brush your teeth_ face. 

“Sorry, I gotta get to work,” Jeremy looks back down from her, not knowing why he feels so embarrassed on top of everything else.

He lets Michael out first, and he shuts the door behind him as Michael yells out “Bye, Christine!” 

He drops the door knob and tears his eyes away from the door. Michael is already halfway down the stairs.

By the time Jeremy is caught up, Michael’s torso is in his car. Jeremy opens the passenger door to see him waiting for his phone to turn on.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon . . .”

And as Jeremy awkwardly waits by the passenger door, Michael’s phone flashes to life.

Michael opens it, and his stomach feels funny at all those calls and texts.

Two missed calls from Donna, three from Ree, and about a million texts.

And Michael is about to call Donna back to figure out what he could possibly do to prevent from getting fired when he notices that he got a missed call from Damien, too. But something’s weird here because when he looks for the voicemail that always comes with it, he realizes with a start that Damien never left one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to sign petitions!
> 
> https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/


	24. Chapter 24

Michael pushes open the backdoor of Vagabond and is immediately met by Donna’s glare.

“I’m so, so, so sorry,” he says all a flutter. “I’m—My alarm, I just. I’m sorry—”

“Mell,” Donna stops him. “You’ve been working here how long?”

“Um,” Michael does a quick count in his head. It’s hard, with everything going on there. “Four years?”

“And in that time, how many times have you missed work, or even been late?”

“Um,” Michael says, trying to count again. But, well, there’s nothing to count.

“Exactly,” Donna smirks, her red lips teasing. The color somehow doesn’t clash with her fiery hair, tied up in a bandanna. “You’re allowed to be human, Mell.”

Michael feels his shoulder sag with relief, suddenly feeling silly that he ever thought Donna would fire him in the first place.

She nods over his shoulder. “Hi, who’s this?”

“Oh,” Michael forgot. God. “This is—uh, Jeremy. He just rode with me—”

“Nice to meet you,” Donna says, turning on her charm. She shakes his hand, “Donna.”

“H-hi,” Jeremy says.

“I must say, though, I kind of missed being behind the machine,” she continues, turning to Michael. “These old hands got rusty!” Donna laughs, stepping aside to let Michael and Jeremy in. “And, I _am_ sorry to ask, but Soph called off tonight. Somethin' about a—”

“Yeah, no problem,” Michael smiles. He is showing up almost five hours late, after all.

“Thanks, Mell,” Donna winks. “See you later, love.”

The door slam makes the bottles shake. Michael can’t breathe yet, though.

“Having a little sleep-in, were we?” Ree’s voice carries over from the kitchen, mocking. Michael glances at her.

“I see you’ve been working hard in my absence,” Michael replies, nodding at her laptop playing Netflix.

“We’ve been slow!” She shouts. “So slow we even sent the floater home. It’s not my fault your ass wasn’t here. Don’t you know the customers exclusively come here to see your stupid face?” Ree smirks, then points at Jeremy rudely. “Who are you?”

“Uh,” Michael keeps forgetting. Fucking hell. He looks at Jeremy who has his arms wrapped around himself, looking extremely off-put.

And, woah. The only non-employees Michael’s ever seen in the kitchen are Damien, Donna’s family, and whichever girlfriend Ree's on that month. And now Jeremy Heere is here, and well. Now Michael feels pretty off-put, too.

“This is Jeremy.” Ree opens her mouth and Michael quickly cuts her off. “_Ree._”

He sees indecision waver in her eyes, and he prays that she’ll behave herself for five goddamn minutes.

“Hey,” she bites. Her voice is ice cold, but Michael supposes it could be worse.

“Hi,” Jeremy nearly whispers, with an aborted sort of wave.

“What’re _you_ doing here?” Ree pauses her Netflix, and Michael senses that it _is_ about to be worse.

“Jere, you can hang out at table one—or something—I’ll grab you a drink!”

“Wait,” Ree protests, but Michael is already leaving the kitchen, Jeremy on his heels.

“Woah,” Alex jumps, almost running into Michael around the corner of the kitchen. “Jesus! Look who showed up!”

“Yes, hello,” Michael says. Alex grins at him then disappears into the kitchen. Jeremy hovers awkwardly by the first table. Michael sees about a million thoughts flash in his eyes. He seems to be choosing what to freak out about first, and Michael can’t say that he doesn’t feel the same way. 

“Oh, God,” Jeremy mumbles, falling into a chair, finally landing on a thought. “I can’t believe she’s covering my shift. I cannot believe. Oh _God—_”

“They really didn’t want you to come in?” MIchael asks, punching in at the register. He looks up, and Ree was right. It’s a graveyard here.

“No, they-they got a cover from the other branch—” Jeremy stops himself, looking a pale shade of green.

Jeremy rubs his fingers into his temples, trying to will away this uneasiness, but well, it just had to work out this way, didn’t it?

Oh, God, what must Lisa be thinking? He ditches her in this coffee shop, then he ignores all of her calls and texts and _then_ she gets called in to cover his shift, so now she thinks he’s ditching work, too?

She must think he’s a raving lunatic.

This is not how he wants this to go, not at all.

And it really is all his fault, turning off his phone last night to ignore Lisa like a toddler. Of course his alarm wouldn’t go off, and he feels so stupid. 

Jeremy looks up at Michael, who’s biting his lip nervously, staring at him from behind the counter.

“They’re not firing you, though, right?” Michael asks.

“N-no,” Jeremy shakes his head. “But, well, they got a cover from our second branch and she—Well, she.”

And oh, Michael thinks, feeling his stomach flip for the upteenth time that day. Oh.

It is the same Lisa.

Because the Lisa that comes in here almost everyday works at the library branch down the street, and Jeremy told him last night how he works at the one across town. And that must be why he looks so queasy. And Michael can’t believe he didn’t connect the dots earlier.

Michael thinks fleetingly of this morning. From what he can remember of what Christine said, in his mindfuck of a state, it seems like this whole thing that could possibly be between Jeremy and Lisa—_his_ Lisa—is new, but Jeremy looks way more nervous than anyone should be over this type of situation. She’s just doing her job, albeit as a cover, is all.

Nothing to get so worked up about. Unless maybe something happened between them.

But, well, Jeremy never said anything last night about it. So maybe it’s not Michael’s business.

Then again, maybe there’s a bigger reason Jeremy never brought it up. 

And then he remembers Lisa, yesterday, how weird she was acting.

And _then_ he thinks of Damien’s unasked question after she left and that only leads to thinking of that cassette in the back of his car and now Michael would rather think of anything else that’s _not_ that—

“Did, um,” Michael walks away from the register, back to his espresso machine. He raises his voice when he continues, so Jeremy can hear him. “Did something happen?”

“I think I just,” Jeremy watches Michael. He pulls out a jar full of tea leaves and a familiar orange mug, then milk and a pitcher from the refrigerator. He closes it with his foot. “I think I just, uh. The girl they-they got to cover me. Um,” Jeremy pulls his eyes away from Michael, then says the last part to the table, very quickly. “Sheaskedmeoutyesterday.”

But at that moment, Michael starts steaming milk, and it’s really loud. Jeremy glances back up at him. He definitely didn’t hear what Jeremy just said, his eyebrows pulled together in concentration, his lips parted just so, the sound of the steamer gets muffled when he adjusts the pitcher. Then, his eyes clear as he flicks it off. He bangs the pitcher against the counter. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jeremy takes a deep breath.

Last night. In Michael’s car, when he was holding that lanyard, he had this really scary thought.

And looking at Michael just now with his lips parted and eyebrows all concentration-y made that thought come back.

And having that thought in the light of day feels much different than having it in the weird non-reality of Michael’s car, and it’s a very scary type of different, so Jeremy pushes that thought away.

And, well. Pushing it away’s not _quite_ lying to himself.

And. Well. Jeremy’s still working on it, okay?

“She asked me out yesterday,” Jeremy repeats, staring at the table, saying each word slowly, carefully, so they all come out.

Suddenly, there’s a steaming mug covering that spot of the table Jeremy was staring at. He follows the hand that’s sliding that mug, right up to Michael’s eyes.

“Oh,” Michael says, quietly. “Do you, um,” he sits down. “Did you—say yes?”

And Jeremy looks and looks into Michael’s eyes. He’s frustrated when he can’t figure out what he sees there.

“Yeah.” Jeremy wraps his hands around the warm mug.

Michael sits back in his chair. “Then, what’s the problem?” He’s not looking at Jeremy.

“I kind of,” Jeremy looks down. He takes the little plate on top of the chai latte off the mug, choosing to watch the tea leaves steep in the milk instead.

He can’t tell Michael what he kind of did. And Jeremy tells himself that _he_ doesn’t even know why he did it, but then admits that that’s a lie.

The truth is, he _knows_ why he ran away. He just doesn’t want to _think_ about why. Maybe then it’ll just go away.

And that’s _not_ lying to himself, Jeremy insists.

Besides. Michael has a boyfriend.

An annoyingly friendly boyfriend with a stupid nice face. 

So it’s not going to happen, anyways. Even if Jeremy did let himself think about it.

Jeremy looks back up, catching Michael’s eyes, trying to remember if a day ever went by where he didn’t think of those eyes, wet and fragile across from him on Michael’s bed that night, right before Jeremy leaned into them, right before everything went wrong.

No. It’s better not to think about it at all.

The eyes across from him look away. “You kind of what?”

“I just did something stupid,” Jeremy says. Because it was stupid, because it’s never going to happen. Not with their history, not with their present. “That’s all.”

Michael is silent for a few moments. Jeremy can’t catch his eye again.

Then Michael inhales sharply as if to speak, but at that moment the front door swings open. The bell makes Jeremy jump.

Michael jumps, too, looking up at the chatty girls pouring in.

“Hi,” he says, standing up to move behind the counter, “are you folks eating in or getting to go?”

And his smile is fixed, his eyes blank, now that Jeremy can see them. Jeremy watches him call to an Alex in the back, who comes around to help the girls. Jeremy recognizes him as that guy who gave him a dirty look, that first time he ever came here.

And Michael is waiting by his espresso machine, ready for the girls’ drink orders, one hand resting on a portafilter handle. He gives Jeremy a pained look, and Jeremy laughs, though it sounds empty, even to his ears. He looks back down into his chai.

He takes the tea strainer out before taking a sip, and he thinks it’s absolutely perfect.

It doesn’t occur to Jeremy, though, as he watches the milk bubbles dissipate, that Michael never even charged him for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe anyone is still reading this! It's such a slow burn like how does your attention span last? Either way, I'm SUPER happy y'all seem to have better attention spans than I would. God bless all of you :')
> 
> Thank you for reading!! <3


	25. Chapter 25

“Can I have a strawberry smoothie, please?”

Jeremy glances up from his phone screen, away from the second book of Aristotle’s _Nicomachean Ethics._ He’s been sitting here for two hours, and he’s barely a few pages in—Not like he’s really absorbed any information, anyways. Every customer is distracting him from his work.

Though, as he watches Michael smile at the little girl in front of him, all traces of that discomfort, stress and tension he’s always holding completely gone from his face, resting his weight over one hip, one ankle hooked behind the other in a balancing act Jeremy’s not coordinated enough for, well. Jeremy’s not quite sure it’s the customers who are distracting him.

“You bet,” Michael chirps, tapping away at the screen in front of him. He loses his balance and stumbles backwards over his feet as he talks with the girl excitedly about her new bike, but he chatters right through it and doesn’t even seem to notice.

The little girl pays in change, and Michael patiently helps her count it out. She doesn’t look to be over nine or ten, and she’s wearing a helmet. Jeremy glances at the front window and sees her small blue bike leaning against it.

The café has filled out a little more since they arrived. Jeremy’s on his second chai, and Michael said that the afternoon shift should be arriving in an hour or so, not like it matters to him since he’s working a double. Or, well, as he said, a three-quarters of a double.

Jeremy said that sounded shitty, but Michael just shrugged and told Jeremy he never minds.

And Michael doesn’t mind, especially not today.

Because that cassette is still sitting somewhere in the back of his car, and he knows he’s going to have to deal with it at some point, but he doesn’t quite know what dealing with it means.

All he knows is that everytime he remembers it sitting in his car somewhere, that horrible heart-stopping feeling he got when he figured out what that purple piano meant comes back, and all he can hear is his brain screaming _no, no, no_ at him, and Michael is not ready to unpack that just yet.

But luckily, he’s been too busy helping customers and making drinks and chatting with Jeremy Heere and ignoring Ree’s stares and pretending like it’s not weird at all, to really let those thoughts swallow him.

And well, the other thought that Damien called him and never even left a voicemail is also pretty distracting, but that’s not the most dire thing on his mind right now, so he can almost deal.

Michael pours the smoothie, shaking the blender a little to fill the cup to the brim. There’s a little extra, so he snaps a dome lid on it, and fills that up, too, then hands it to the little girl, giving her a blue straw to match her bike. She smiles at him with crooked teeth and dimples before she skips out the door.

Jeremy’s reading some boring philosophy shit from his phone, or at least that’s what he said when Michael asked earlier. Michael watches him scroll for a moment, noticing how the stubble from last night looks a little fuller, and he vaguely wonders how much of a beard Jeremy could grow, if he wanted. 

Michael’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He dismisses that thought without realizing he thought it, and walks into the kitchen to check his phone.

It’s a text from Ree.

_heere is here bitch. explain yoself._

Michael gives Ree a pointed stare, which she just returns as she chops carrots, then he leans against the sink. Alex throws two long tickets onto Ree’s cutting board. She drops her knife with a clatter. “Fuck, Alex.”

“Sorry!” He shrugs, then he hands Michael a ticket, too.

Michael assesses it. Two lattes, one vanilla and one plain with almond milk. He makes them quickly, feeling a pair of eyes on him from table one. They look away when he looks back, though.

Alex picks them up the second Michael’s done pouring, so Michael returns to his spot leaning on the sink.

He pulls out his phone and is about to text Ree back something snarky, but then he notices another unread text that he must have missed in his panic to get to work.

Michael opens it.

_hey, chill night tonight?_

Michael’s stomach flips, then goes ice cold.

Then, a lot happens to him all at once, so quickly it takes him a moment to even begin to sort it out.

First is guilt, he thinks. Guilt that he didn’t see this text yesterday, because he always replies within a minute. Being shift supervisor and getting called in every other day has formed the habit in him, so Damien must have been worried or freaked or _something_ when Michael never replied.

Which must have been why he called. But he didn’t leave a voicemail and he always leaves a voicemail. And if Damien was worried or freaked or something he _definitely_ would have left a voicemail.

Which means that Damien _wasn’t_ worried or freaked or anything like he’d normally be if Michael didn’t reply to a text.

And that only worries and freaks Michael, his brain quickly supplying other things Damien could have been. Bad things, like angry or disappointed or tired.

And as he rereads the words again and again, he thinks of the last time they had a chill night, and what everything that happened that night meant.

And then, Michael thinks of the cassette lying on the back floor of his car, and everything that means now.

And Michael can’t help but wonder if the two things are related. The cassette, the text.

And the more he thinks about it, the more and more it seems likely that they are _very_ related.

Damien’s unasked question yesterday. Damien’s lack of a voicemail—Oh _God._

Then, for a terrifying moment Michael can’t even begin to explain, he forgets every way he and Damien fit together so well, everything they’ve built together and been through together up to now, as the thoughts fill his brain before he can even begin to deny them.

Somewhere far away, he thinks someone is calling his name, but he shakes his head so it’ll go away.

Because he’s trying to think of his Damien that he loves so much, who knows that he prefers Playstation to Wii, though he likes Nintendo games the best, and who always remembers his moms’ anniversary and gets them a card, and doesn’t buy flowers for them because Ma’s allergic, but always buys flowers for Michael, even when it isn’t their anniversary, because Michael loves them so much. Who knows he likes pineapple on pizza and doesn’t make fun of him for it, who buys him fancy coffees on his birthday, even though Michael tells him time and time again he doesn’t need presents, and that Damien just being there is enough.

A week ago Michael could have rattled off those things and more if you asked him about his boyfriend. But right now, he can’t remember a single one.

All he can remember is the disappointment in Damien’s eyes that night half a year ago, and the way he woke up the next morning on Damien’s couch, Damien asleep on the opposite side, curled up so far away from him. How Michael had to leave for work feeling like everything took ten times more energy, silently crying as he tried not to wake Damien up, that image on his mind of how that morning could have been so much different, so much better, if only Michael wasn’t so messed up.

No, Michael can’t remember all those reasons he loves Damien. All he can think of is the one big reason why it’s all going to fall apart if they move in together.

Michael can’t rationalize all this in any other way.

And he hates that this isn’t the first time he’s thought of all this. He _hates_ that, but this time is different. So different.

Because this time, that offer to move in with Damien, to finally start that future he’s always thinking about, is actually sitting in the backseat of Michael’s car. This time, it seems so _real._

Maybe a little too real.

And, oh God, now that it’s real, it just seems so inevitable.

It’s all going to fall apart. 

“MICHAEL!” Ree shouts. Michael hears a loud bang, and then she cusses, but Michael’s too freaked to understand what’s going on.

He blinks and realizes his breath has picked up alarmingly, and he’s about to have a panic attack.

“He can hear me!” Ree exclaims, dropping the pot she just banged onto the dishwasher on her cutting board. Michael vaguely notices a massive dent in the side. “Hey buddy, breathe.”

Ree is standing in front of him, her hands behind her back. Her eyes are a ridiculous shade of blue.

And Michael’s going to have a panic attack at _work._

“Breaaaaathe, dumbass, like this?” Ree takes a very dramatic inhale, then holds it. She glares at him.

No, Michael’s not going to have a panic attack at work, because Ree is glaring at him like she’ll murder his family if Michael does have a panic attack at work.

So Michael tries to breathe like Ree, trying not to let go of her gaze.

Her blue eyes are almost violet. He’s never seen a color like that. And, woah, he never noticed how tall she is. She’s almost his height.

And she has freckles, so many that her cheeks are completely covered. Michael starts counting them.

And after a half minute, Michael’s breathing, and he doesn’t have a panic attack at work.

“See?” Ree walks away, back to her cutting board. “Fuck man, look at my pot!”

Michael still feels kind of fuzzy, though, and his stomach hurts. He doesn’t know what just happened.

“Bud?” Alex’s head is poked around the corner, and his eyebrows are pinched together. Michael wonders if he saw all that fuss, and by the way he’s looking at him, he probably did.

And if fuzzy and sick wasn’t enough, now Michael feels super embarrassed.

“What’s up?” Michael asks, staring at a coffee cup lid on the floor.

“You have a customer,” Alex says, walking back into the kitchen. He brushes by Michael with mugs to put in the sink, and because Alex isn’t taking this customer’s order, Michael knows exactly who it is.

Michael can’t just hide in the kitchen, then, and he knows that Alex and Ree are probably having a silent-look-conversation behind his back because he’s not running out to meet his favorite customer, so there’s nothing for it but to move his feet to the register.

And he is frantically trying to shove all those thoughts that are still fighting to overtake his mind again into a little box so he can pretend like it’s all normal, like he’s always done before, but for some reason all he can think of when he tries to do that is last night, with Jeremy.

And so he still has these thoughts, and since shoving them into a box is failing miserably for the first time in a while, instead of that, he’s just trying, trying, _trying_ to pull a convincing smile. He knows it’s not going to be enough, though, even as he rounds the corner.

“Hey,” Michael says, leaning forward on the counter. Damien is standing there, looking great as ever, if not a little tense. 

Michael takes him in, wishing these thoughts would just _stop_ already, so he can just talk to his boyfriend, because he needs him right now, because he doesn’t know what to do—

“Yo,” Damien smiles, and leans forward.

But Michael still can’t shove the thoughts away, and his body reacts before his mind. His stomach jolts, and he almost falls backwards.

Damien’s forehead goes a little tenser, and Michael feels the heat rise in his cheeks.

Michael’s eyes flick to Jeremy, who is _not_ looking at his phone screen anymore, then quickly back to Damien. 

“Sorry, I—” Michael starts. But then, the question in Damien’s face clears.

And then he’s just looking at Michael. Looking and breathing.

Michael can’t figure out what’s going on.

But he has a feeling it’s all his fault, and he wishes he didn’t step back from that kiss, but he just _did_, because he doesn’t want to move in with Damien, and seeing him for the first time after discovering this new piece of information is making him do weird things, and, well—

“Day?”

—He always pictured a future where they moved in together eventually. And he guesses it wasn’t until that future was right in front of him, beckoning to become his present, that he realized how scary of a future that was.

Because a future like that has expectations, at least with a human like Damien. Expectations that Michael can’t meet.

But the thing is, the stupid, silly _thing_ is just, well. In that future Michael always envisioned, he _could_ meet them.

And he’s only realizing now, how naive that was.

“Oh,” is all Damien says. But his face just remains blank, his hands deep in his pockets. And he just keeps looking at Michael, before saying again, a little softer, “oh.”

“Damien?” Michael’s pitch rises. The way Damien said that is scaring him.

But it shouldn’t be scaring him, because Michael shouldn’t be surprised.

Of _course_ that future was just a dream. Michael knows that, and Michael _knows_ dreams aren’t reality.

And wow, Michael feels so stupid.

Because it was just a dream. A pretty dream of a pretty painting, fit for a museum. And Michael knows the reality is he’d never be allowed to touch it.

And, well. He was never very good at that, anyways.


	26. Chapter 26

Damien shakes his head a little.

“Uh,” he tilts his head, next. “Bad day?”

Which is what he always asks on those off days where Michael can’t touch at all. Not even for little things, like their hand hugs. But Michael hasn’t had one of those days in a while, and well, today isn’t exactly one of those days.

Michael just nods.

“I’m sorry.” And he doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for not being able to kiss him, or for not answering his text, or for throwing the cassette in the back of his car, even though Damien couldn’t know he did that, or what.

But when Michael glances at Damien, he can tell Damien knows he’s apologizing for more than just ducking out of a kiss.

Because if that were all Michael was apologizing for, Damien just would just shrug and tell Michael not to sweat it.

But instead Damien opens and closes his mouth again. He looks at the floor, and Michael wants to do that, too, but he forces himself not to as Damien asks his next question.

“You, um,” He shuffles his weight from foot to foot, “you figured out the tape, didn’t you?”

But maybe Damien knows exactly what Michael is apologizing for.

“Yeah.”

Damien doesn’t look up from the floor, but Michael can see it in his body, how that hits him.

And Michael doesn’t want to look at that, so instead he looks down, not quite to the floor, because he thinks that if he does he might just fall right onto it and never be able to get back up. His eyes land on a bright pink sticky note with a phone number on it, stuck to the register.

“Yeah,” Damien says, “Um,” he shuffles in front of Michael, his voice pitching up ever so slightly. “I’m-I’m gonna go back to class.”

Michael’s eyes snap up to meet Damien’s.

They’re dim, and Damien’s blinking a lot, and his forehead is still all tense, and Michael recognizes every one of those signs. He knows what happens next, and the last thing he wants is for Damien to leave.

But Damien just gives him one shake of his head, and turns away.

“Wait, I’m—” Michael starts. Damien’s speed picks up, and his head is down, “Day, _please—_”

But he’s opening the front door, letting a stream of customers in, customers that Michael has to help because he’s at work, and there is absolutely nothing he can do. He watches Damien turn and walk away through the front window, his shoulders shaking underneath his colorful windbreaker.

Alex brushes by him, grabbing a stack of menus, then greets the customers at the door. He leads them to the back room, and Michael knows he’ll be getting a big drink order any minute, and he should probably go clean up his bar since he never got around to it last time, but he’s stuck, frozen, unable to pull his eyes away from the front window.

“Michael?” A small voice in front of Michael, somewhere to his left. Michael shakes his head. He can’t look away from the window, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do the moment he does.

But then Jeremy is there, standing in front of him, and instead he’s looking into hazy blue eyes.

“Michael,” Jeremy says. “Are you . . . okay?”

And Michael doesn’t know what to do, because he certainly isn’t okay, but he’s at work, and needs to pull himself together because he’s about to cry at work, now, too.

Michael wipes under his glasses with the palms of his hands, pushing everything that just happened into a little box. That function seems to be working properly now. A little late, Michael thinks.

And he knows he shouldn’t be locking things away into a little box in his brain because he has a feeling that doing that is why this is all happening in the first place, but well.

He sees Alex turn the corner in his peripherals, he’s scribbling something down on his notepad.

He does have a job to do, after all.

So Michael drops his hands and says, “Yeah.”

Alex rips the page out of the notepad and hands it to Michael. “I’ll get you a ticket in a sec—”

“Don’t waste the paper,” Michael steps out of the way, so Alex can use the register.

He doesn’t look back at Jeremy and instead goes to his bar. He has a mess to clean up, still, and three cappuccinos to make.

Meanwhile, Jeremy is confused. He slowly sits back down, not quite knowing what he just witnessed.

But, whatever it was.

Jeremy looks up through that archway and sees Michael rinsing out a milk pitcher. His shoulders are tense, and he still looks like he’s about to cry, but that concentration-y look is back, and slowly that overshadows everything else, save for those tense shoulders.

Then, that big, scary girl who was in the kitchen when they got here walks around the corner. Ree, who is apparently the best, though Jeremy’s first impression is anything but.

As she passes Michael, she pauses, then backs up and looks at Michael’s shoulders. Then she shoots a look at Jeremy, and Jeremy feels himself freeze up all over at her stare.

Ree walks around the front counter, not taking her eyes off Jeremy until she’s at the refrigerator where Jeremy got his Cherry Coke that one time. She thwacks it open and takes a Pepsi, then she turns to look at him.

“You’re Jeremy,” she says, though it sounds more like she’s accusing him of being Jeremy than asking him if he is Jeremy.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, making himself keep his voice even. “Ree, right?”

“What’d you do?” She jerks her head in Michael’s direction.

“Wh—Sorry?”

“Why’s he all spazzed out? Like,” Ree sticks her tongue out and makes a face, waving her hands around, “y’know?”

“Oh, uh,” Jeremy swallows. He has a feeling like he doesn’t want to get on Ree’s bad side, but he also has a feeling like he’s on her bad side by default. “I, uh, I don’t know?”

“Nuh uh, don’t play no games with me,” Ree steps towards him and slams her Pepsi on the table, opening it loudly. Jeremy jumps. “He was all sunshine and unicorns when y’all got here. _Something_ happened, I ain’t no fool.”

“Uh,” Jeremy looks up into her eyes as she takes a huge sip, not breaking eye contact with him as she does. “Uh, his—uh, Damien came in and they had like—”

“Wait, Day was here?” Ree makes a face. “He didn’t say hi to me, what the fuck.”

“I don’t—” Jeremy shakes his head. “They had this quick talk then he left. It was confusing, I—I don’t know what happened.”

“Huh.” Ree says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She burps into it. “So he’s not all whack cuz of you?”

“Uh, no?”

“Oh. _Good,_” she punctuates, but she’s not smiling at him, and then Alex finishes printing out the ticket.

“Ree, stop harassing Michael’s friend,” he says, handing her the ticket and making Jeremy’s heart skip with those words.

“Ree, stop harassing Michael’s friend!” Ree mimics. Jeremy surprises himself when it makes him laugh. Then, so quickly Jeremy's not sure it even happened, Ree smiles at him before she snatches the ticket from Alex, scowling. “Motherfucker.”

“I know, a lot of mods, I think you’ll survive,” Alex quips. Ree stalks back into the kitchen. 

Michael places three mugs on the little table next to his espresso machine.

“Got another ticket for you, buddy,” Alex says. Michael doesn’t look at him, but nods and gets back behind his machine. Alex’s gaze lingers on him another moment, then lands on Jeremy. “You said Damien left?” He asks, so quietly he’s mouthing it.

“Uh,” Jeremy doesn’t know how to feel about Michael’s coworkers talking to him, especially about Michael’s boyfriend. “Yeah.”

Alex glances back at Michael. Then, he picks up the three mugs the way only a server could, and walks them to the next room.

Which leaves Jeremy sitting there, not knowing what to do. The only thing he knows for sure is that there is no way his reading assignment is getting done _now._

Meanwhile, Michael is pulling shots and steaming milk and mixing syrups with autopilot turned on, because that’s the only way he’s going to get through the next few minutes, and a few minutes at a time is the only way he’s going to get through this shift.

And he knows that, to any stranger, he looks calm and collected, someone who is focused on his work. But the people that know him would wonder why he’s being so quiet, why he’s not smiling or laughing or singing and dancing to the music Ree’s blasting from the kitchen, even though she’s not supposed to, even though he’s doing what makes him happiest.

Because Michael really didn’t like what Damien said just then. Or, well, the lack of things Damien said.

Because he knows Damien is extremely careful with his words. It’s something he’s developed since before Michael even really knew him, but he got better at it, with time.

Damien’s really careful with his words, but he loves to use them, in any and all situations, whether it be an argument or debate or joke. And it’s something Michael adores.

And the fact that Damien chose not to use those words he loves so much, instead choosing to leave, alerts Michael to the fact that he is really, really upset.

Michael throws open the ice bin, scooping some into a few cold cups for this ticket, his mind wandering.

It was a couple months after Michael had met Damien.

_ January, Senior Year _

Michael likes Damien’s room.

He has _Back to the Future_ posters everywhere, and an old box TV, and everything is orange and blue, and it’s super weird and retro and right up Michael’s alley.

And Michael always feels so comfortable here. Something he hasn’t felt in his basement since, well . . .

Michael just prefers it here.

Except today, something seems a little off.

He’s laying on Damien’s floor, textbooks spread around in front of him. And he’s actually getting some homework done.

But that’s not right, because normally when he does homework at Damien’s, he doesn’t actually do the homework, because Damien is a chatterbox, eternally distracting Michael from doing any work with all of his words.

But tonight, homework is getting done, and Damien’s not talking, and there is something mad wrong with this picture.

Michael glances up at Damien, not for the first time that night. He’s sitting on his bed over his laptop, his shoulders hunched, his jaw set, and his forehead scrunched. Michael watches him rub his eye hard before catching Michael’s eye.

“What?”

Michael blinks at him, because these are some weird vibes, and Michael contemplates not asking for a second, because he’s never felt these vibes coming off of Damien, and this is completely new territory, and Michael's never been good with that type of thing.

But Michael wants to help, if he can. That's something he's usually good at.

“Um,” Michael debates for another second, then decides to ask, in case he can help. “Are you all right—”

“—Yeah,” Damien assures, much too quickly. He cracks his knuckles. “I’m . . . I’m fine.”

But Damien doesn’t seem very fine. He doesn’t relax, and he keeps messing with his hands, and now he’s blinking a lot at his computer screen, eyes blank.

And Michael just wants everything to be fine.

“Are you sure?” He can’t help but check, a few minutes later.

Damien goes very still then, eyes still on his laptop screen. Michael watches him breathe. In and out. In and out.

Damien opens his mouth with a sharp inhale then pauses for a split second. And Michael thinks maybe he should have just left it, but then it’s too late, and the words come spilling.

“Ms. Heed just. She-she pulled me aside today and told me she caught me cheating? And-And I wasn’t. I have no _idea_ where she got this _fucking_ information—”

And then he pushes himself off the bed, slapping his laptop closed. The noise makes Michael jump.

“Because I don’t cheat, okay? I’d never, _ever_ cheat in her class because that goes against like literally _everything_ I believe in and I don’t _understand_ why she’d think I do that and I don’t know if someone else told her I was cheating, or something—” And then Damien starts pacing around his room, and his vibe makes Michael press himself against the wall on the floor, because Damien, usually so controlled and careful and clever with his words, suddenly isn’t.

“—And I cannot have this shit on my record if I want to go to college, and I didn’t even do anything in the first place, and who would even tell her that? Who the fuck does that? And God, it’s almost like she _hates _ me or something—”

He starts flexing his fists, and his voice raises, and he gets this freaky look in his eyes—

“Like I just _fucking hate_ her okay, because I’d never ever fucking do that and she should know that, I don’t _understand_, and I hate her, and it makes me so-so—”

“Damien—”

“Like I want to just—”

“_Damien—_”

“_Just—_”

“Damien stop yelling, _please—_” And then Damien’s eyes find Michael’s, and there’s a look there Michael never wants to see again. “You’re scaring me.”

And then Damien’s eyes soften, and he blinks again, and his shoulders sag.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He looks away. “I’m sorry.”

And he barely says another word the whole night.

The next day, they’re thrifting after school. 

Michael watches Damien closely. That weird vibe he was giving off yesterday is nowhere to be found, and Michael can’t help but wonder if he got his hands on some bad pot and imagined the whole thing.

But Michael knows that didn’t happen, and he’s just grasping at straws here. It was just so weird. Michael can’t stop thinking about it.

And so, terrified he’s about to mess up this delicate new friendship he thinks he’s forming, scared Damien will never talk to him again, but also so worried about his new friend, Michael asks.

“Hey,” Michael says. Damien keeps flipping through vinyl records.

“Yeah, man?”

“Um. I was just wondering . . .” Damien’s flipping slows down. Michael tries not to notice. “Last night, um. Are you . . . okay?”

“Oh.” Damien stops flipping through the records, for a split second. His smile drops, and then he keeps flipping, answering softly.

“Um,” he continues, “I’ve just never had a lot of . . . uh. Friends? You know, and I, um. I think, like,” Damien stops flipping through the records again, “since by now most people would usually leave, I’ve just never had anyone stick around, and, um. I think the whole no one really sticking around thing made me a little fucked up?” Damien looks at the floor then, hands still resting softly on the vinyl covers. “Like sometimes I just—I get really, um. Mad? And I don’t know why, and I am really, _really_ working on it, um, my _anger issues_, as my dad calls it, so-so—” Damien let out a breath, then says quickly, “So please don’t be freaked or think I’m the worst, because, um. My, um—”

Michael stops going through the box of cassettes he’s currently raiding, not quite looking at Damien because he doesn’t think Damien will like that. “Yeah?”

“My, uh . . . therapist said, um. An adjustment in how I, like, talk might help? Something about how trying to mostly speak on positive things helps. Like the bad thoughts can still happen, but it’s better to focus on the good. To talk about the good. And breathing. And, um,” Damien smiles at the ground. “And counting, too. That helps.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one,” Michael smiles right back, catching Damien’s eye when he looks back up at him, underneath all that hair. “I think your therapist knows what they’re talking about.”

And so Damien did work on it, and by the end of their freshman year of college, right around when they started dating, it was like that part of him never even existed at all.

Sure, he still got mad, or upset, but he knew how to talk himself down, with his careful language that he loves so much.

Michael knows Damien thinks through everything he says, and Damien likes to have things to say, so he says things a lot.

So for him to just leave without saying anything.

Michael slams the portafilter over the espresso bin, watching the grounds fall away. His eyes catch the time on the register.

The second shift will be arriving any second, and with all this time left in his double, well. 

Michael can only wonder what Damien’s thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter also might take a little longer to get out! Work is kicking my ass B) But I did just put my two weeks in, then I'll have some time off before school so here's hoping plenty more chapters then! Thank you for reading in the meantime, I love y'all <3
> 
> And THANK YOU for sticking with me through 60k words!! This is THE longest fic I've ever written, and for the first time ever, I'm writing a long, long slow burn that I have absolutely every intention of finishing. I usually fizzle out around 30k words, but we just doubled that and I'm still loving writing this! Thanks for your continued support! <3


	27. Chapter 27

Jeremy has long since given up on trying to read his homework, and his phone is dying anyhow. Instead, he’s been spending his time observing.

Observing the customers that come in, their moods, their orders. Observing Michael.

That little girl with the blue bike comes back, frantic in her entrance, her curly hair frizzy.

“Can I have another strawberry smoothie please?” She gasps, short of breath.

“What happened?” Michael’s voice is light and friendly as he talks to her, genuine for the first time since Damien left.

“I spilled it _everywhere!_” She explains, throwing her arms out to the side to show Michael just how everywhere the smoothie went, and though she looks frantic, she’s laughing.

“Oh _no!_” Michael exclaims, then makes her another one. “Don’t worry about it!” He whispers when she pulls out her bag full of change. “Just be careful!”

“I will! Thank you, sir!” She laughs, and is gone again.

That’s nice to watch.

Jeremy then looks at all the unique and fun and weird mismatched furniture, and the crazy, different paintings on the wall, which were all done by local artists, Slava explains when he catches Jeremy staring at one. And then he looks at Michael, busy with the steady rush, wondering if his drawings are anywhere on the walls. If he still draws like he used to.

Maybe he’ll ask, later.

Then he looks at the warm lighting around the space, and in doing so, notices chalk drawings on the black painted wall behind him, portraits of every employee, each so full of personality and color. The style looks incredibly close to Michael’s, and Jeremy feels as warm as the lighting as he inspects each one.

Yeah, he will ask Michael later.

And, surrounded by such color, Jeremy can't help but find it odd, how someone so at home here can look so out of place, wondering when Michael started wearing only black like that.

He used to love color.

And as he wonders, he listens to the chatter and noise and odd music playing over the speakers, a mix of out-there genres, which only remind him more of Michael and his weird genres.

And Michael, and Michael, and Michael.

“Oh.”

Which is why it’s so jarring that Lisa is standing in front of him now, because his brain is still having trouble juggling Lisa Thoughts and Michael Thoughts and organizing them how they should be and now it feels like his brain is malfunctioning, because he suddenly forgets how to speak.

Lisa clicks her tongue and squints at him, obviously expecting a reply, but Jeremy’s got nothing.

“Hello,” she says. “Lovely seeing you here.”

She glances over the register, to the barista in the back, who is currently making two iced oat milk lattes for the girls at table three, not that Jeremy’s been keeping track or anything.

Then, she sits down, right where Michael sat earlier, looking at Jeremy.

Slava materializes out of the second room. “Hey, Lisa. Usual?” He asks, walking by.

“Yeah,” she says, “please.”

“No probs!”

Slava goes into the kitchen, and Jeremy’s eyes can’t help but follow. Slava tells Michael something that makes Michael’s head to snap to Jeremy’s table. He catches Jeremy’s eye, then looks back at his machine, his cheeks going red.

Lisa sighs next to Jeremy.

“Look,” she says. Jeremy does, dragging his eyes away from the kitchen.

Lisa opens her mouth, then pauses and inhales again, changing her direction of thought. “Aren’t you gonna say anything?”

“Uhh,” Jeremy’s vocabulary extends. “I’m, um. I’m really sorry. About yesterday. I just . . .” Jeremy trails off. “I don’t . . . . know what happened.”

Lisa observes him, patiently, not looking at all convinced.

To be fair, Jeremy thinks, it wasn’t very convincing.

She exhales, the sharpness in her eyes disappearing as she does. Her shoulders sag and she looks down at the table.

“Look,” she says again, much softer this time. “I—” She takes another moment to steal herself, then plows forward confidently, in a way only Lisa could. “I like you, Jeremy. I do.”

Jeremy goes still in his seat. And it’s weird.

Those words don’t affect him as much as he expected, in all those times he daydreamed about hearing them. As much as they would have, some time ago. And the thought makes him feel heavy.

And it’s a weird heavy that pulls in his chest. It’s almost like . . . a grieving kind of heavy. And he doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t like that at all.

“And I know you like me, or um,” Lisa laughs, but it’s a little too high pitched, and she’s not looking at Jeremy. “I knew that you did. I mean, you’re as subtle as a hurricane.”

Jeremy should say something. He should say something. But all he does is laugh weakly, because she’s right, because she’s funny, because she’s Lisa.

“Which is why, yesterday. I just.” Lisa shakes her head. “Look,” she starts again, biting her lip. “I asked you out because I knew you wouldn’t ask me out, even though I had _hoped_. I just know that’s not your style. It’s not _you_.” She takes a second to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ears. “But then these last couple of days, you just seemed like—” Lisa lifts her shoulders, then drops them in a shrug. “Like you were losing interest, so I asked, and you said yes, but I know your heart wasn’t in it,” and then she looks him square in the eyes. “I knew it the moment you said yes.”

It’s so heavy, pulling, pulling, pulling him down.

“And I really knew it when, well. Like I said, you’re subtle as a hurricane,” Lisa shrugs again.

And Jeremy is about to ask what she means, but then he gets interrupted.

“Lisa!” Michael walks around the register, carrying a mason jar filled with some iced coffee drink Jeremy would probably hate.

“Hi Michael! Oh, I’m sorry,” Lisa says, “can I actually get that to go? I’m leaving in a second.”

“Oh,” Michael stops abruptly, looking back and forth between Jeremy and Lisa.

His eyes linger on Jeremy.

Pulling, pulling, pulling.

Michael catches himself and goes to pour Lisa’s drink in a to-go cup. “Yeah, don’t worry about it . . .”

Lisa looks back at Jeremy. “Are you gonna say anything?”

“I don’t,” Jeremy shakes his head. “No. I’m just. I’m really sorry, Lisa.”

“Please, don’t be. Trust me,” she laughs, and this time it’s more like the laugh Jeremy loves. Loved. He doesn’t know anymore. “I’ll be fine.” And then she tilts her head at him. “I’m just worried about you.”

“What do you—”

And then Michael’s there at the register, and Lisa stands up to pay, leaving Jeremy confused, so he reverts back to doing what he’s been doing, and watches Michael.

“How’s it going?” Michael asks her.

“I’m working two shifts today, Michael. Two!” She exclaims. Guilt pools into Jeremy’s stomach. That’s his fault. “How do you do this all the time?”

Michael shakes his head, smiling, but not looking at her as he swipes her card. “I don’t know. It’s good for me, you know?”

“No, I do not. I’m tired, man,” Lisa takes a sip of her coffee. “God damn. That’s good stuff. I love you more than, well—” and Jeremy is too busy watching Michael stretch his arms over his head to catch Lisa’s quick glance in his direction. “More than you’ll ever know, at the rate this is going.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael yawns, then smiles.

“I don’t know, I’m tired. I’m delusional.” She grins. “I gotta go!”

“All right, see ya later,” Michael tells her.

“Bye,” she turns away giving Jeremy one more look. “And really, dude. I’m okay. Stop looking at me like that and figure your shit out. _God._ I’ll see you around.”

Jeremy means to say bye, or to ask her to wait, or to stand up and stop her, or do anything that isn’t just sitting there and watching her leave, but he doesn’t.

Instead, the door slams shut, his throat tightening as his heart gets pulled, pulled, pulled.

Michael has an odd expression on his face by the time Jeremy looks at him next.

“Lisa?” He asks Jeremy, not quite looking at him. He’s playing with a pink sticky note on the register.

“Yeah, um,” Jeremy says, staring at the empty mug on his table, long cold from when he finished that second chai. He feels Michael’s eyes on him, trying to ignore it.

But then a few moments later, Michael’s hand is on that mug. Jeremy watches him pick it up, but instead of bringing it back to the kitchen, he sits down, where Lisa was.

“You two . . .” and then Michael tilts his head back and forth, in a question, playing with Jeremy’s mug instead of looking at him.

“Um,” Jeremy says. “No. I. I don’t think so. She’s not . . .” Jeremy swallows. She’s not interested, is what he wants to say, but that’s one lie not even Jeremy can believe. It’s more like she’s not, well.

She’s not Michael.

And that’s a thought Jeremy can’t have in the light of day, outside of the darkness of Michael’s car, outside of the nonexistent feeling of last night, outside of that night five years ago, when Jeremy was confused and wrong and stupid.

No, Jeremy shouldn’t be thinking that, because sitting at table one at Vagabond in the middle of the day, with Michael messing with that orange mug across him, surrounded by Michael’s coworkers and customers, with the memory of Damien in this same space, well. It’s just a little too real. A little too impossible.

Right.

It’s no wonder it feels like grieving.

And it’s pulling, pulling, pulling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gooooodddd I just moved into a new apartment and I've been so busy getting my life organized! Sorry about the delay in publishing. I love you all <333


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin, our artist Al went back and illustrated chapter 16! The art is STUNNING as always so please go back to see it and appreciate Al's awesome talent!

They’re not dating.

Jeremy looks extremely uncomfortable and also like he’s not going to finish that sentence, so Michael stands up, and brings the mug to the sink. He feels Jeremy’s eyes on his back the whole time.

He almost runs into Hector, standing by his espresso machine.

“What—” Michael asks, but Hector holds up a finger.

“Wait . . .”

Michael looks at his other hand. He’s slowly pouring heavy cream into a cold brew coffee.

“. . . Are you doing . . .” Michael finishes his thought as Hector stops pouring, letting out a breath as he does so.

“Just you wait, man,” Slava says, passing him to drop some plates off in the sink.

And after the cake bag, Michael honestly isn’t sure he wants to know.

But with everything going on inside his brain right now, from Jeremy and Lisa to Damien, he really would like to know, to let himself get swept away in whatever it is this time.

“What?” Michael asks again, letting a smile creep into his expression. Forcing a smile to creep into his expression.

“I am making the perfect coffee. _Perfect._” Hector announces. “It’s gonna blow even _your_ mind.”

“Hm,” Michael highly doubts this, “okay.”

“Don’t you ‘hm, okay’ me, dude,” Hector insists. He turns around and inspects all of the shop’s syrups, carefully choosing one. “You’re gonna wanna train me as a barista after this masterpiece.”

Michael shakes his head, leaving to put Jeremy’s mug in the sink.

Jeremy.

Michael puts the mug down, but doesn’t take his eyes off it.

Michael supposes he’ll have to give Jeremy a ride at some point, to go get his car.

But . . . Come to think of it, Jeremy’s car is only about a mile away. Maybe less. And Jeremy definitely could have walked out to get it and be done with the whole waiting around at Vagabond thing hours ago.

And that thought had to have occurred to Jeremy. Michael meant what he said, on that last day all those years ago. Jeremy is smart.

Jeremy’s smart.

He’s kind of a mess, and has a lot of problems and thoughts and voices in his head, and he doesn’t always know how to make decisions, but he’s smart, which is why Michael suspects he has all those problems in the first place.

And maybe Michael needs some help with this Damein situation, because he’s so wrapped up in it that he can’t possibly be smart about it by himself.

But, no. He can’t really go around telling Jeremy everything about his personal life, especially on the Damien front, because talking to Jeremy about Damien feels weirder than Michael would like it to, especially after what he thinks he just witnessed out there.

So maybe he won’t ask him, but he sure wishes he could, and not feel weird about it.

He just doesn’t want to feel weird about this anymore.

Michael pulls his phone out of his pocket, and checks the time.

Maybe he’ll start closing a little early, so he’ll have less to do after the door’s locked. Then he’ll be able to get Jeremy to his car, and still have enough time to swing by Damien’s apartment after.

The idea sends a wave over Michael that makes him squeeze his eyes shut. He grabs onto the edge of the sink as the memory of that last time he went over washes over him.

Michael can’t believe he hasn’t been over in that long.

Yeah. Michael can see where this is all heading, and he doesn’t like that, and he wants to change it, and he wants so bad for things to not be like this, but, well. He’s Michael and Damien’s Damien and where part of them mixes so beautifully, another part’s like oil and water and won’t mix no matter how much Michael squeezes them into a box in his brain.

Michael opens his eyes, but can’t quite relax his grip on the sink. He feels eyes on his back.

“Jeez, man,” Hector says behind him, “Relax, I’m not gonna steal your job.”

Michael barks out a laugh, harsh and hollow.

“Trust me, that’s the last thing I’m worried about,” Michael spins around to lean back against the sink instead, wondering where that bitterness came from.

Hector has a cup full of sugar in one hand, his coffee in the other, and he’s completely ignoring Michael as he walks around to his cutting board.

“Oh man, oh man,” he mutters with a nervous excitement Michael can’t help but think is a bit too much for the situation. Slava follows, close on Hector’s heels.

Michael steps away from the sink to get a better view of whatever’s about to happen, trying to get excited about it like he normally would, trying to let the goddamn stupidness of it all wash away all these awful feelings and thoughts gripping at his chest.

And Michael hates that he can’t just be carried away by what’s happening, that he even thought of it as stupid at all, that he’s not also on Hector’s heels, excited to try this disaster, when there was a time where he’d be as invested as Slava, free of all these weights dragging him down.

He looks at Slava, wondering if he has any weights on his shoulder. He watches Hector stir the iced coffee, imagining what awful thoughts he might have in his head, feeling so heavy and bitter and sad.

And that catches Michael off-guard. No, Michael didn’t mean that, Michael shouldn’t be feeling that, and Michael doesn’t like that. It’s not fair to be projecting that on his happy coworkers, who’s biggest problem today is deciding how much sugar to put in Hector’s perfect stupid coffee.

God, how wonderful that must be.

Michael crosses his arms over his chest, feeling like he’s almost not allowed to be watching this, feeling so separated from his coworkers for the first time in ever.

It’s just, he only wants Damien to not have looked at him like that, to not have left without saying anything, and he wishes Jeremy wasn’t sitting at table one, and he wishes he didn’t know that him and Lisa had something going on, he wishes he was home right now, not pulling this stupid double at this stupid job, and he wishes that he could either be promoted or fired already because of how pointless it all is, and he wishes, he wishes, he wishes.

No. No, that’s not right, and he can’t wish like that, and he should stop.

“Michael, bro?” Slava’s voice cuts through Michael’s thoughts.

“Hm?” Michael realizes he’s staring at the floor. He looks up, at Slava, at Hector, whose cup of sugar is hovering over his coffee.

“You okay, man?”

Michael realizes he’s still holding himself, too, and drops his arms, feeling naked.

“Yeah,” Michael says, smiling. He can feel something prick at his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Uh,” Slava shares a look with Hector. “If you need to, um. Like, go home—”

“No,” Michael cuts in. “No, no, really. I’m good.”

No, yeah, no. Michael’s just tired. He’s tired, which is why he’s thinking all these awful things. He’s tired, which is why he’s thinking everything is stupid and his coworkers are stupid, but they’re not. They’re not, and he loves them, and he loves this job, and he loved Damien. But he’s tired, which is why Damien didn’t love him. And he’s just so, so tired.

“Dude, maybe you should go home,” Slava says, and Michael doesn’t understand why he’s saying that.

“No,” Michael insists, “This is my job.” He can’t go home, because he’s covering Sophie, and he’s the only one else who’s fully trained on bar, and he’s needed here.

He’s _needed_ here. And Damien doesn’t need him anymore, and Jeremy doesn’t need him, and no one else needs him, but he’s needed here. “I-I need—”

Michael’s throat closes on him before he finishes that thought, and the rest of his sentence comes out in a cry. He presses his hand over his mouth, wondering when his face got wet like that.

“Michael, dude,” Slava’s voice is much closer than it was a moment ago. “Go home.”

And then there’s a hand on Michael’s back, and it makes Michael jump so bad that he’s sure he’s freaked out even Hector, watching all this mess from the kitchen.

Michael presses his hand on his face harder, walking forward towards the fridge across from him, as far away from Slava and his touchy hands as possible.

“Oh fuck,” Hector says, to his left. Michael swallows, trying to ease his tense throat as he looks over to see half the cup of sugar Hector had missing. His eyes quickly find that missing half, slowly sinking into his perfect iced coffee.

Ruined.

Behind Michael, Slava starts laughing, howling at Hector. Hector’s face is frozen in horror as he watches the sugar mountain sink into his masterpiece, and Michael feels the world go still.

“I’m sorry—” Because he jumped, and scared Hector, and ruined everything. “I’m so, so sorry—”

Hector looks away from the mess, and up at Michael.

“Oh my God, dude, it’s just a coffee,” he laughs. “It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine, because it was this awesomely dumb thing, the highlight of Hector’s stupid, happy day, to make this perfect coffee, and Michael ruined it. He ruined it, just like he ruined everything else, and he can’t stop crying.

“I’m sorry,” Michael can’t stop himself. “I’m so sorry.”

And he hears Slava saying something, somewhere to his right, but it’s really far away, so maybe there’s a customer at the register, but then after a few seconds, he hears another voice to his right, and this one is so old and familiar and close and easy on him.

“Michael?” Jeremy says, softly. “Don’t touch him,” he adds, harsher and quicker, and Michael thinks that’s probably directed to someone he can’t see, since he’s standing so close to the fridge.

“Hey, Michael,” his voice is gentle again, and Michael needs that right now.

“Jere, I’m so sorry,” Michael tells him, because Jeremy shouldn’t have to deal with this, because Michael’s still like this, all these years later, because he can’t help but wonder if he had anything to do with Jeremy’s weird, confusing breaking up thing with Lisa, though that’s so unlikely he has a hard time believing it himself, even in his state, but he’s just so sorry it happened anyways.

“Michael, um,” Jeremy says, pausing for a second, just like he always used to. “You have like literally nothing to-to be, uh, sorry for. Yeah?” 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” because he has _everything_ to be sorry for. All those years ago. “I’m so sorry, I left, I’m so sorry,” He left, and he’s so sorry, because he missed Jeremy. He missed him, so, so much. And he wonders how the fuck he ever got along without Jeremy, now that Jeremy’s standing next to him, doing all the right things that no one else knows how to do, and he can’t imagine what Jeremy went through, after he left.

He just didn’t care, at the time. He just didn’t care.

Michael feels something cool against his forehead, and he realizes he’s pressed himself up against the fridge.

“Michael, can-can I touch you? On your arm, here?” Jeremy asks, and Michael needs help, and he needs Jeremy’s help, because Jeremy’s so smart and always knows what to do. Michael nods.

And Jeremy’s touch is nothing all all like Slava’s. His is feather-light, soft, gentle, and careful. His fingers wrap delicately around Michael’s forearm, then pull. Michael follows the pull, letting Jeremy take him away from the safety of the refrigerator, letting Jeremy turn him around until his eyes catch those hazy blue ones he couldn’t get out of his head.

“Jeremy,” Michael says.

“Michael,” Jeremy says. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

And slowly, slowly, slowly, so long as Michael looks only into those hazy, hazy eyes, Michael stops crying.

He stops crying, and the world starts spinning again, and for a split second, everything does feel like it will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I have been monstrously busy with the new semester and apartment move! Sorry about the lack of updates! I hope to update sooner with the next few installments. Thank you all so much for your patience and for sticking with me! It's been over an actual YEAR since this fic was started, so thank you so much! I am still in love with writing this and you all. Re-reading all those sweet comments is what's keeping me going. Thank you thank you! <3


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